Metamorphosis
by likegallows
Summary: He didn't have a soul. He was a monster. His name was Sylar, Gabriel, Nathan; he couldn't remember any of them. All he could remember was one face. With warring halves and others expectations its impossible to know who you are or who to be. Eventual GG/PP
1. 01 Darkness

_**AN:** This is my first attempt at Heroes fic. It's AU and I'm still hammering together the idea behind it. Set during Volume 5. _

Air.

It wasn't supposed to be so cold. So thick. So… empty. It wasn't supposed to clog lungs or weigh down fingers while trying to wiggle them through it.

Air certainly wasn't supposed to make anyone claustrophobic but he was trapped. He was choking in the clammy cool and he was dying. Pain shot through his body as he tried to move but couldn't. Not completely. He knew he was dying. He could feel it crushing around him.

Hands curled. Fingers clawed. Every movement was stiff and awkward in his dark prison as he fought up—because away from his body was up, wasn't it?

_I'm going to die_, he thought. _I'm going to die and no one will know_. But who would know? No answer came to mind for that one, either. So he kept clawing. Up. Up. Out.

He was suffocating in his prison. Dark. Alone. Was he blind? No… no, he couldn't open his eyes. His mouth was filled with the cold bitter air. It stuck to his tongue. Grainy. Thick. He was drowning in it, coughing and spitting. Inhaling more of it.

_Air isn't thick…_

He was dying. He had to hold his breath, though his lungs burned and protested. Hold them until what he didn't know but he had to hold them. Keep moving keep… digging. Digging up. Fingers broke through and that's when he realized exactly what it was he had been doing. Digging. Not air but earth, grasping at nothing but the cool night. Shoving it aside. Not air. Earth. Thick like concrete weighing down limbs as he dug himself out before he could be anchored to the earth forever.

Choking, he spit again and again trying to remove the debris from his mouth. Plugged one side of his nose and then the other exhaling with all his might until he cleaned them out as well. Scrubbing his eyes, that was harder. Trying to remove irritants even as they burned. Scratched cornea perhaps, but he was free.

Though his eyes were open the night was nearly as dark as the back of his previously closed lids. There was a buzzing, almost a hum somewhere. It was far off but not in the night. No, the night was silent, almost deafeningly so. It was in his head. Thousands of tiny noises far off like a swarm of bees wrapped in cotton behind thick panes of glass. He didn't recognize the sound.

Slowly, each of his joints aching, he rose to his feet. The trees rose so tall they blotted out the stars and the light. Where was all the light? The noise? The people. Standing with his head cocked back and his eyes raised upwards he felt terribly small.

_I'm all alone._

But there… there was the North Star. He stood in the shallow grave his eyes darting across the sky. Somewhere off to his right a twig broke. Head snapped to the side and his body was flooded with endorphins. _He's coming._ Who he was or why he was coming he didn't know but he couldn't be there when he got back. No, he'd put him there. Struggling to control his own limbs he lumbered off through the forest zig zagging through the trees.

It wasn't just the earth that has made his limbs feel slow. They felt far away and though he moved him his actions didn't feel totally his own. Buzzing. Far off buzzing. He tripped over roots and stumbled through the brush following lights up ahead until the trees cleared. Cleared away overhead and the sky it was open above him and he could see the stars. Weaving in the road, he did the best to keep himself upright but his body was swimming. His mind was not his own. Everything was so distant coming through some unsharpened, untrained filter. There was a puzzle but so many pieces were missing. Or upside down so he couldn't see the picture just the shapes and their off-white backings.

_Am I good at puzzles?_

The thought lasted but a moment then drifted away. Brown eyes lolled in his head not quite keeping locked on any one thing. Focusing was difficult. But what was there to focus on out in the middle of nowhere? _Ahh… yellow lines._ Try his best he could not quite follow them but weaved in and out with each step a jerk up his spine, jarring his muscles. They were too tight and too loose at the same time, ready to snap but jelly hardly able to support.

_Where did I come from?_ Glancing over his shoulder he saw the forest but he couldn't remember being in it. Or leaving it. He was on a road somewhere but couldn't remember where he was going. Just away. And what was on his hands, anyway?

There was something in his clothing rubbing against his skin as he walked. Running his hands over him he felt it clinging to him. Damp earth. He glanced down and he was covered. Furiously he began rubbing his hands over himself trying to brush off his clothing, brush off his hands, his arms, his hair. His face. Why was he covered in dirt? Each thought slipped through his fingers, staying but a moment and then melting away through cracks in concentration just as quickly. The cracks were more like canyons.

A loud double beep sounded behind him and lights—how had he not noticed lights? —startled him. The man almost fell as he stumbled to turn himself around, his balance not his own, and looked over his shoulder. A man hung from a police car eyeing him suspiciously. _What's wrong?_ Hands up and away he looked down at himself… filthy. Torn shirt. Blood. _Whose blood? Am I hurt?_ He didn't feel hurt but honestly he couldn't feel much of anything. Just cold.

The tone in the officer's voice and the look on his face were unmistakable even if he couldn't focus on what the other was saying. "Hands up. Stay right there," the cop called and from the distant look he was given, the man figured it wasn't the first time he had said it. But the blue blinking lights were blinding and they were slicing through his brain. The buzzing grew louder and he couldn't see, not in front of him. He could see the forest, and the earth, and the hole. The hole he had been in when he'd crawled from the earth. He'd clawed his way out of the earth—it had been drowning him. He had been suffocating. Brown eyes grew wide and he sputtered, a strangled noise leaving his lips. When his vision cleared it was to cuffs slapped on his wrists and the back of a cop car.

Frowning, he bit his lip the taste of the forest still in his mouth mixed with metal. When had he bit his tongue?

_The lights… they're outside._

The buzzing quieted, wrapped in cotton. Behind thick glass. His eyes glassed over as he stared out the window, head rolling to the side. Maybe the forest hadn't been so bad. Maybe he should have stayed.


	2. 02 Light

_**AN:** Second chapter already! Thank you for taking the time to read. And please feel free to give some feedback, good or bad. I'm still finding my feet with this adventure but give it another chapter or two and we'll be seeing our favorite a little bit differently. _

They let him in a room so bright it hurt his eyes.

He hung his head, chin pressed to his chest. It rose and fell slowly with each breath. In and out. In and out. Hair fell across his sight, a welcome curtain that provided too little relief.

_So bright._

Hands clasped together on the table as one set of fingers picked at the cuticles on the other. Blunt nails black with dirt tore at tiny pieces of equally soiled flesh. Tore a bit free, tossed it aside, and then dug in further. Newly exposed pink skin paled after a moment and was tore free just as easily as the last piece.

Slowly, the man shifted forward and then backward (then forward once more) in his seat staring at the table. Brown eyes saw nothing; his gaze was far off.

The man—the officer—came and went asking questions calmly at first. The more questions asked—and the more he failed to answer—the angrier the officer became.

"Who are you?"

_I'm not sure. _

"What's your name?"

_I… What is my name? My name…_

"What were you doing wandering around in the woods?"

_I can't remember. I was in the woods? I was… I was there._

"Where did you come from?"

They wanted to know whose blood it was but he couldn't remember. _Is it mine? I think it's mine…_ he thought. It was impossible to remember one question in light of another. They wanted to know whose blood it was because he had nothing to show for it, not a scrape.

Minutes passed alone in the too bright room as he prodded the holes through his shirt. Numb fingers felt the thin material's burned edges but barely recognized the sensation as scratching himself. There were no marks. No hint that he'd taken any trauma and yet somehow he knew the blood was his just as sure as he knew the buzzing behind his eyes was just that—behind his eyes. No one else could hear it. Only him.

Each question he failed to answer made the officer raise his voice. The questions came faster. He had done something wrong even if he wasn't sure what it was. It wasn't that he didn't understand the questions. They were directed at him and the cop wanted answers—he understood that—but he didn't know the words to say.

When he tried to focus it hurt. Pain sliced through his skull blinding white, a supernova impairing his vision until everything went blank. He could taste the dirt in his throat scratching and shredding as it filled his lungs all over again. The buzzing escalated to an earthquake of sound and pressure building inside his skull and behind his eyes tearing apart any will of concentration. A strangled noise like an animal tormented foamed past his lips. Little flecks of spit near microscopic landed on the desk next to his hands. He rocked in his chair.

The cop shook his head and pushed back from the table scratching the linoleum floor with his chair. It emitted a shrill screech; breaking his strength he collapsed back into himself, head down and shoulders hunched. Slapping his palm down on the table, the cop tried one last time. "You have a name. What is it?"

He sputtered in his seat lifting bound hands to rub at his eyes still unseeing.

_It's so bright._

A few choked syllables fell from his mouth but they amounted to nothing. He didn't feel like he was anyone.

The light was so strong his eyes burned, but not quite as badly as the images that cut through his vision without his calling on them to be seen when he blinked. Glimpses of memories—_are they memories?_ —burned into his retinas. Everything needed toning down a few degrees, dulled to stop the overwhelming response of his nerves. His stomach was knotted and violently rolling threatening to expel itself on the floor. It would be one of the least intelligent moves he could make given the officer's glare in his direction so he swallowed a few times over and blinked.

He couldn't form any words.

Captain Lubbock pushed away from the table and with a final glance over his shoulder left the interrogation room. "This one's a fucking whack job," he muttered to the officer standing outside the closed door. Casting a glance back through the one-way mirror he turned to his inferior. "I don't know what he did… but it was twisted. Tortured some animals or cattle. Probably caught him because he could go murder spree. I'd be willing to bet on it," he murmured to himself.

Turning to the other, the captain ordered him to call for a psychologist. The man needed a padded room, not an interrogation room. "And get me a coffee while you're at it."

Leaning against the mirrored glass, he watched as the dark haired man sat there unblinking. Dirty hair hung in his face, clumped with dirt. He moved silently back and forth. Every now and again his eyes would dart around but they lacked completely focus, not pulling into view anything in the room itself. Whatever the man was seeing, it was long over or had never existed in the first place.

Captain Lubbock shook his head.

"Fucking looney toon."

Some time later, he heard the clack of footsteps drawing nearer down the hall. They were the distinctive click of women's heels, not the shuffled steps of the doctor he had requested. From the corner of his eye, Captain Lubbock noted the youthful woman now standing at his side. He turned when she spoke.

"Captain Lubbock. I'm Dr. Gibson. Madeline," she offered after a beat extending her hand towards him. She dropped it a moment later when the gesture went unanswered.

"Where's Dr. Verheiden?"

"Retired." Madeline tried to hide her distaste for the question masking it with patience. It was the reaction she had prepared herself for but the captain's tone rubbed the doctor raw. She had her own experiences, talents and merits. Certainly her predecessor had seen so.

"You're new."

It was a statement not a question and she came to her own defense quickly. "I was interning with Verheiden in AU for 3 years specializing in psychopathy, malignant narcissist disorder…" Madeline's list of credentials were denied further value as the Captain waived a hand dismissively and asked for real world experience.

Sadly, she had no previous criminal psych analyses to draw from but Madeline didn't let that hinder her enthusiasm for her insight and her talents. Even if she had to prove herself—and it would be a great while before she, especially as a female in the field, would be taken seriously.

"So who is he?" The doctor redirected, watching the man with dark hair and eyes fidget on the other side of the glass. He would get up, move about, sit back down and rock for a few moments, never quite still.

"We have no idea and neither does he. Found him last night covered in dirt. Blood. Bullet holes in his jacket. The guy doesn't know his name or even what day it is. Nothing." The Captain's dark eyes scrutinized him and gave a shake of his head. It was a waste of time. "Let me simplify it for you, Madeline," he said her name with little more affection than a curse. "Take out your rubber stamp and mark this guy insane."

Pushing back her shoulders, the doctor stood a little taller. "They don't give us stamps." She would speak with him, whatever Captain Lubbock thought. And she would do her job. She would do it well and in the process help the man sitting in the other room.

There were people watching beyond the glass. He couldn't see them and he didn't turn to glance uselessly to the surface reflecting back his own image; they wouldn't be seen there and he didn't want to look for them anyway. Hands set down slowly to his jeans running slowly across the well-worn fabric. The sensation let him know he'd chosen them often before—enough that they weren't stiff. The material was yielding beneath his touch, but still thick and protective.

_I'm not crazy_, he thought. _I know this much. My mind works. Sort of. Things are just muffled._ Or they were too much. They couldn't blame him if they were too much.

The door opened again with a creek but he ignored it. His breathing picked up slightly and he gave only the most cursory of glances to the intrusion of his space. With the captain came a woman—dark and slight with soft features—but he stayed seated. She took the seat across from him and he turned his body sideways, shifting in his chair. From the corner of his eye he gave a sideways glance to take in the interloper now sitting at his table.

"My name is Doctor Gibson. I'm here to help you." Her tone was soft. It was pleasant to his ears and soothed the buzzing in his brain slightly. She sat before him with shoulders lowered just fractions of an inch, her voice confident and her features kind. The doctor wasn't submissive but she was non-threatening and kept her hands right in his line of sight.

"Can you tell me your name?"

Lifting his head, he looked to the captain but the officer was impassive and unmoving.

"I…" Lowering his head, he rubbed his face in the crook of his dirty jacket not quite hiding. It was ineffective and he turned after a moment, his eyes still down. "—ngh… I…"

Captain Lubbock rolled his eyes. "Been a lot of that."

"Staring and stopping?"

Leveling his gaze at Dr. Gibson, he shrugged. "Mostly stops."

_I'm still here_, he thought as they carried on conversation like he wasn't there or an invalid. He couldn't give the responses they were hoping for but he recognized words. Aphasia. He knew what aphasia was. Trauma, severe trauma to the head that affected mental capacity. Brain damage. He didn't miss the insinuating look that Dr. Gibson gave to Captain Lubbock; he decided he liked her.

"He was like this when we found him." The officer did little to hide his contempt for the suggestion presented.

Turning her attention back to the man in front of her, she did her best to size him up. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Heavy brows and strong nose. His features were sharp, a sizeable contrast to the trembling figure in front of her. When she asked him if he could tell her what happened to him he flinched and stuttered as if he couldn't match thoughts to speech.

"I was… I was… I-i… in the." He wiped his face and glanced down. Two swallows." Forest. Lost. And then I was…" The muscles in his face twitched as pupils flicked back and forth rapidly but the doctor couldn't be sure what he was seeing if anything. A sob closed his throat before he could stop himself, jerking back in his chair. "I… please…" he pleaded, dark eyes shut as he grimaced. The blinding white of supernovas behind his eyes was punctuated with sonic booms.

"Take your time," came softly to him, reeling him back.

Sucking on his bottom lip, he drew in a deep breath. "Walking. And now I'm here. In this room. In this tiny room and I can't…" the cuffs were burning against his wrists and he could feel the earth packed against him choking him in its cold embrace as he tried to tear himself from the deadly confines. He had to get out again. He had to get out because he couldn't breathe and he needed air.

His stress building, Dr. Gibson turned to the other and gave him a level look. "Captain, do me a favor. Unlock these cuffs."

"No." He said, adding without pause, "I don't make a habit of locking myself in with unrestrained lunatics."

"Then you can leave me your keys on the way out." Extending her hand, palm out to retrieve them she withheld a scowl from her features as the captain slapped the keys down on the table just beyond her reach. The expression on his face and shake of his head said it all: it's your neck. And so what if it was her neck? The idea that she couldn't do her own job was silently infuriating but the doctor was well able to control the air she presented on the surface—no need to stress or alarm her patient. Without trust they wouldn't be getting anywhere.

Thin fingers fumbled with the keys until she found the appropriate one and inserted it into the locks one after the other undoing his cuffs.

She told him they would clean him up and get him some new clothing. Dr. Gibson took his hand and gave it gentle squeezes letting her touch linger. Her skin was so warm and soft. He didn't return the action but his eyes did venture to where her dark skin contrasted his own very pale, his fingers still lean but much larger than her own. It was a kindness people didn't offer afford him. _They didn't? Why wouldn't they?_ He wondered briefly but he turned his attention back to her immediately her syrupy voice soothing.

"I'm going to help you as best I can. Help you figure out who you are. Put the pieces together. Promise."

He squeezed her hand back. He believed her.


	3. 03 Cage

_**AN:** I apologize for the delay and the slow start. This is a bit longer than I had imagined it would be but we're setting the pace for when everything changes. Sylar has no idea who he is or where he his but he's coming to terms with his situation. I promise it'll pick up after this! _

When Dr. Gibson returned her cheeks weren't flushed but he knew she was flustered. Her skin was warmer by a fraction of a degree compared to holding his hand before. Another encouraging squeeze and he knew she had gone to bat for him taking whatever lip service Captain Lubbock had given until they had agreed to her demand. She gave him a warm smile and let her hand linger for just a moment.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she confirmed. Nothing sounded nearly so good as washing the blood and filth from his hands and peeling off the filthy clothing he'd been sitting in for hours before finally this angel had appeared to him. He might not know who he was but he had a champion of sorts in her. Encouraging him to stand up, she motioned for him to follow her to the door bringing the cuffs with her. "I'm sorry I have to do this but they insisted, just for the walk down and back. I couldn't talk them into everything," and the way Dr. Gibson pronounced them clearly meant Captain Lubbock.

He consented by holding his wrists prone to her, the cold metal snapping back into place.

Just outside the door a stocky police officer stood giving him a quick once over. Dr. Gibson gave him a look expressing her thoughts on the matter before continuing past. He merely looked at the man curiously—though not directly—from the corners of his eyes.

"No funny business," mumbled the officer sternly but without heart, more for show if his superiors should they be listening than from any true threat presented by the lanky man. He kept his eyes down. He knew he looked harmless enough, except perhaps for the blood on his clothing but his body language was diminutive and drawn into himself. Stocky sized him up and found him leaving much in the way of wanting compared to the threat he supposedly might pose, but would never express so much to Captain Lubbock. That would be the fast track to a long career in the ways of making coffee.

He paid close attention as they lead him down the hall to the locker rooms. Head was cocked to one side then the other noting noises and what direction he came from. Idle chitchat and the scent of coffee from that direction—break room. Restless scuffing of feet in repetitive patterns—cells must be that way. His eyes were down but he paid careful attention storing the information why, he didn't know, perhaps an action out of habit he couldn't quite recall.

_Wouldn't that be funny if I was a criminal_, he mused darkly without any real consideration to the matter. It was absurd.

Dr. Gibson stood by the door to the locker room and offered him a kind smile and gentle grip to his arm. "Take your time and get yourself cleaned up. You'll feel multitudes better once you feel like a person. Then we can work on getting you to feel like yourself."

He smiled back and murmured thanks.

"If he comes back with so much as a bump or a twitch, I'll know." Stocky gave a roll of his eyes but consented with a 'yes ma'am ' and lead him into the locker room. Off came the cuffs and he made his way over to the showers. He gave a quick but unnecessary show of turning them on, offered a small and bland piece of soap and removed his handcuffs while meeting his eyes. "Now I don't think you will, but let's not make this a hassle. Last thing I need is the Captain all over my ass, okay?" He gave a nod and when Stocky stepped away, he folded arms over his chest and moved away his eyes but remained facing him.

Cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he realized Stocky would not be leaving. Eyes darted around the room but there was nowhere to move for cover and surely if he did he would be punished. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply.

_It's okay. It's okay… she said it would be okay._

Silently he slipped off his jacket and slid the filthy shirt over his head. He let himself actually look at the garments and he was flush with disgust and shame. _What happened to me?_ Fingers fumbled at his button and zipper, pushing aside pants and boxers letting them drop. He kicked them aside like the hazardous materials they were while trying his best to maintain some shred of modesty with a hand covering himself, the other awkwardly reaching up over to his opposing shoulder. It took a few moments to turn the water on and get the spray to an acceptable temperature, but then he turned it on in full. The pressure was weak but the temperature was scalding.

Chewing at his lip, he looked to the soap covered in its thin sheet of paper. Opening would mean forgoing modesty. Stealing a look at the officer—now just outside the reach of the spray facing him, but not quite looking at him—he sighed to himself. Turning his shoulder a bit to not fully expose himself, he removed his hand and tore the damp paper letting it drop to the floor. The bar of soap was pale but not white and didn't offer much in the way of foam even as he rolled it end over end in his hand under the water. It was rough and had little in the way of scent but the water ran filthy down the drain as he began to scrub his skin thoroughly covering each area starting from his head and working his way down. Skin shone red from the water and from the aggressive action of the soap over and over and over each area until he was satisfied no dirt could be seen by the eye.

There was nothing for his hair but the officers' heads were cropped so close they had no need of anything special. Running the same bar through his hair, he thought, _so much for my conditioning regiment_, and did his best not to snort to himself. Apparently he was snarky or just lacked a normal sense of humor. Working furiously, he presented a pitiful excuse for lather and used deft fingertips to try and massage out dirt. It was irritating his scalp now that he paid attention but the showerhead didn't offer enough pressure to rinse all of it out. Bending forward just a bit, he did his best to rinse it all down the drain coaxing as much of the filth out as he could.

Eyes were closed, he breathed through his mouth not wanting to inhale water through his nose in his position. In the moment with his fingers working thoroughly his focus drifted elsewhere. Wet. This was wet. For moments he forgot his nudity and stood a little taller directly under the water letting it wash down over his whole body. Hands ran over his arms, pushed back his hair from his face and rubbed at his eyes until they were free of water. Good. It felt so goddamn good. When his bodyguard coughed, heat flooded his cheeks once more and he turned chastely away but let his eyes continue to wander over his own body, taking inventory of all its appendages. His. Though they didn't feel so much like he owned them beyond his ability to make them move. Long, thin fingers. Large capable hands weren't massive but as he opened and closed them he was sure they were capable—of what, he wasn't sure. Just capable. And so he continued stock and rubbed the harsh soap—now just a nub—a second time over each area until his skin shone pink once more, but now also pruned.

The water ran clear once more, he stood just a few moments longer lavishing in the feel of the warmth but also of the tile beneath his feet. It was slick but textured, likely to prevent falls from those unhygienic enough not to wear any barrier to prevent spread of fungal infections (he severely hoped he wouldn't catch such a thing). The floor almost gripped at his feet. Satisfied, he turned off the water, wrung out his hair and, remembering himself, turned towards the stocky guard with one hand censoring what of his lower half he was able. Looking to his open hand, Stocky moved and turned his back for only a few moments (having decided he was harmless enough) and returned with a towel and change of clothing.

"Thank you," he murmured as he accepted the towel and moved away from the showers to a bench near the lockers. It was impossible to be modest and dry his hair so resigning himself, he took the stiff bit of fabric bleached past the point of the point of comfort and straight on toward sandpaper, and worked it through his hair until it stopped dripping. Still, he relished the feel of such a poorly treated patch of material and how different it felt against his skin. All his nerves felt on fire, like they were alive for the first time.

"So, you really don't remember anything?"

Casting a glance over his shoulder, his silence and blank look were answer enough. _The pages of this book are yet to be filled. Either that or I'm a misplaced manuscript. Maybe I'm a writer_, but the thought left him just as quickly. Clearing his throat a bit he replied with a soft, "nothing," and turned his attention back to the sweatshirt and pants before him. They swam on his lanky form but apparently tall only came in size rotund. The ill-fitting articles were a vast improvement from his blood and dirt caked garments. They were soft and warm and he appreciated both. He was led back to the room in cuffs but they were removed as soon as Dr. Gibson returned and took the seat across from him.

She offered him a mug filled with steaming liquid and removed the cuffs from his wrists once more letting them lay on the table next to him. When she asked him how he felt, he was honestly able to say a little bit better. Taking the mug into his hands, he sat just a second feeling the warmth of the cup radiating and warming up his hands. Lifting the mug slowly, he sipped at it experimentally letting the flavor roll slowly over his tongue. Strong but sweet. Setting it back down, not wanting to ingest it took quickly; he glanced back up at Dr. Gibson. "It's amazing. What is this?"

"Tea. You've never had tea before?"

Meeting her gaze slowly, he gave a shake of his head. "I've never had anything. It feels… feels so new. Like I'm feeling everything for the first time." It was the longest string of words he had put together and the sound of his voice was foreign in his ears. He spoke softly and slowly searching for the right things to say.

The room didn't feel so bright any more but the buzzing in his head, it grew in volume every time he reached for a thought. Maybe he was on the verge of a memory, making some connection, but it was cacophonous in his own head. Wrapping his hand around the mug, he murmured, "hot," like a toddler making the connection between language and object. "This…" the handcuffs no longer binding his wrists were raised to his cheek and he pressed the cool metal there. "It's cold. I know these things… these words, these feelings but they're… they're… I can't put them together."

It was infuriating to be sat there, no better than a child. Things he should have known simply for the whole of his life were vastly empty. Brows knit in frustration as he tried to push through the mental fog wrapped around his brain. It was swimming in cotton—fruitless. "They're not in my head. They're there and then they're not. They're gone and it's…" he trailed off. Lifting his hand, he rubbed at his eye slowly trying to make the dull throbbing behind it disappear. Thinking was painful.

"Scary," she supplied.

Both of his brown eyes met hers and though she pretended to understand, it was clear it was textbook rather than experience. Still, he appreciated her gentle tone and undivided attention.

"It's very scary." Looking away, he massaged at his temple once more trying to work the droning away as if it were birthed from muscles too tightly wound or a build up of pressure at some crucial point. It helped not at all. No, he couldn't make the connections completely but he gave a small smile anyway. "But also somehow beautiful. All of it is overwhelmingly beautiful."

How to explain what someone else would never understand—he was feeling things. Commonplace things with a fresh set of eyes and he could absorb them and appreciate them in ways that no one else could. The sweet taste of tea on his tongue, the sensation of temperatures, the sound of a feminine voice offering what comfort she could. These were things so common no one would bat an eyelash and for the first time since he'd landed in the police station, he felt almost blessed.

_I might not know who I am, but whatever's happening has a greater purpose._

"Jamais vu," Dr. Gibson supplied with a small smile, having heard of the experience many times though blissfully ignorant to experiencing it herself. She went on to explain it was the opposite of déjà vu and was quite common in cases of disassociative amnesia. "That's good news," she encouraged, though he couldn't possibly understand why.

"How is that good news?" He was sat in an interrogation room in Baltimore PD sweats without any recollection of how he came to be in his current predicament and the doctor was smiling at him softly. _Good as in the prognosis is good, or good as in fixing this should be easy?_

"I think something traumatic happened to you." Though she didn't exactly look pleased when she said it, she was perplexed. There was an identifiable eagerness to her attention but she spoke slowly and plainly like he might not otherwise understand. "You've blocked it out. It means the you in you is still in there somewhere."

_That at least sounds sort of good._ He hoped.

"I'd like to try a memory exercise. I want you to close your eyes and tell me the first thing you see."

The look she wore spoke silently of expectations and he was fretfully aware of how badly he didn't want to disappoint her. _What if I can't remember anything? I haven't been able to so far._ Though the hammering in his head went a long way toward discouraging his efforts. And the painful flashes, lest he forget those. It wasn't going to be pleasant. Sitting back in his seat he drew in a deep breath and ran his hands slowly up and down his thighs ridding them of imaginary moisture or dirt or else trying to work up some confidence. Clearing his throat he leaned back and closed his eyes only briefly.

The whine in his head became shriller and he snapped open his eyes. "Nothing. It's just black."

"Just relax. Be yourself." The words were soft and soothing, velvety as they left her mouth. He tried to let himself be relaxed by her silky tone and reassuring smiles and settled back once more.

_I don't know myself,_ he thought briefly. _I don't know who to be._

He took deep breaths, slowly drawing in air to his lungs and closed his eyes once more. For a moment he remember it hadn't always been so easily. They'd been filled once… filled but not with air. A painful heaviness grew behind his eyes and the buzzing was replaced with the inharmonious ticking. The two sounds, faint at first grew more distinct and were so disjointed as to be deafening. He tilted his head and took to massaging his temple once more.

"Um, the ticking… it's distracting."

Dr. Gibson's eyebrows rose in question. "What do you mean?"

"That clock and your watch are… they're off. Somehow." There it was. That gelatinous feeling, like he was surrounded by something viscous slowing his reactions as he tried to move from one area to the next. There was another thought there but the cogs in this rusted machine were so gummed up they were having trouble turning. _Think, think, think_ he silently screamed to himself forcing through the mental haze. Searching, he finally found, "Different ticks. Different timing. One is faster, much faster."

Slouching just a bit, it took an incredible amount of energy just to arrive at the conclusion but he was satisfied he had managed it. He had found the answer and it was reflected on Dr. Gibson's face.

She glanced down at her wrist and the watch she was wearing, not unnoticed by him. "This watch has been running fast for years. I keep meaning to fix it but you heard that?"

He was so satisfied with the awe and approval on her face he practically burst into song. If it took him years to come to understand how he'd come to be here or remember where he was from, he was sure he would push and push if only for that smile. That look of approval. He'd never had such a look cast his way before and he desperately wanted it again and again.

Casting his eyes down, he smiled softly to himself.

"So this ticking thing… it's good. It's your subconscious, probably a clue to your past. Let's… let's try again."

_We're getting somewhere. I have no idea where but we are, just look at her. Please keep looking at me like that,_ he silently prayed. She didn't say so much but maybe she had a better idea already about who he was, she just needed him to continue making the connections.

Just as he was settling back, preparing himself for the fatigue of forcing through whatever mental barrier was barricading the answers, the door creaked open. Dr. Gibson glanced up to see Captain Lubbock peeking inside, her patience wearing from the expression on her face. He glanced from her to the man and felt a shift in his gut. Though the captain's expression was blank, he could feel a change in the air. It was suddenly charged.

"Can I see you in the hall, Doc?"

She turned back to him and gave a soft smile. "I'll be just a sec. Okay?"

He didn't reply. Something was coming to an end. He didn't bother looking back at her or tracking her movement with his eyes, but let his gaze blur out of focus elsewhere. Without wondering how, he knew that she would not be coming back as she pushed away from the table.

"Just got back a fingerprint match. We got an ID."

Sucking on his bottom lip, he identified the feeling and wondered at its placement and familiarity: loss.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	4. 04 Gabriel Gray

_**Characters: **Gabriel, Captain Lubbock, Madeline Gibson_

_**Setting: **Baltimore, MD police station_

_**AN: **Thus far the story has really just been getting into the mindset of Gabriel. This chapter will see a little more action and from here it will break from the tv story-arc to come into its own. Thank you for reading and please feel free to leave some feed back. I love any and all criticism and ideas or thoughts! _

There was nothing to the room but the sound of the clock—it made him calmer. He'd glanced at it once over his shoulder and without pause had known the time every moment since. It filled the space until Dr. Gibson came back and he knew, somehow, that she would come back.

The door creaked open and he looked up expectantly but his eyes were met with the loathsome sight of Captain Lubbock. Trying to look beyond him got him nothing but a split second view of the hallway. No Dr. Gibson and not distant click of her heels to indicate she was just a few moments behind the Captain's likely hurried—and rude—pace. Still, his eyes lingered an extra second after it closed hoping that maybe she would walk through.

_Where is she?_ He silently worried to himself.

Captain Lubbock carried himself hurriedly, jaw set in determination. Determined for what was the question that he was likely to miss because little attention was paid to the other. He didn't like the captain and the captain certainly didn't like him. While he was searching the door, he missed the manila folder the other man was clutching in his hand.

"Hands on the table, palms down." The captain punctuated his command with his own hands slamming down onto the tabletop. The display was unmatched.

"Where's Doctor Gibson?" Running his hands up and down over the arms of his chair, then over his thighs, he felt a little shock. Static electricity. It gave a brief pop and happened a second time as he glanced back to the door. His eyes flew wide when he heard the other man had sent her home. "What? No- she… she was here. She said that… she cam here to…" He tripped over his words, stuttering past consonants and almost slurring his vowels in a mild panic.

_She said she would help me_, he thought miserable. _Why can't I get the words right?_ They were there but finding them to put out in the air… they evaded his grasp and Captain Lubbock's dark eyes glared at him with every indication he would grab his sweatshirt and shake the phrase from him regardless of any brain trauma if the thought had had any semblance of importance.

"She was here to tell us who you are. But now we know that, _Gabriel_." The name was a sneer, the captain's lip curling as if it curdled just at being said. Eyes flicked quickly over his features waiting for any indication of recognition or reaction, but he was met only with a puzzled expression. Nevertheless, the captain had worked with less and obtained more during his career. Leaning over, he let his taller presence shadow the man in front of him. "You're a watchmaker from Queens," he continued, "who murdered your own mother." He waved to the still closed folder. Brown eyes fell to the folder momentarily wondering at its hidden contents.

He glanced back up. "What… did you say?" The ticking swelled behind him. "Watchmaker?"

There was the slightest pause as Captain Lubbock searched his face. "I also said murder. And mother. Now hands on the table."

There it was again, the pop. He kept running his hands over the legs of his sweatpants dismissing nonexistent clamminess. They must have just come from the dryer because he kept shocking himself, little jolts crackling and sending pain up his fingertips or through his palm.

"I didn't do anything wrong. I wouldn't… I wouldn't… k-kill my mother. I would never." His stomach was twisting so tightly in knots he thought that he might be sick. Pain shot through his head, his skull felt like it was cracking with pressure as he fought for the words that sounded thin and stilted even to his own ears.

_I sound guilty because I can't find the words. I can't get them out but I'm not, I'm not, I'm not._

Captain Lubbock dismissed his sputtering as the younger man turned to the door for some kind of assistance hoping upon wishing that the doctor would come through the door and save him. She would come and put the officer back in his place. The officer, having made up his mind, turned away.

_The doctor said she'd be back_, he reminded himself. _This has to be a nightmare or some kind of perverse shock therapy. They do that, don't they? Create some panic inducing fear that jolts the brain back into functioning?_ Was she coming? He expected her to and yet the door remained still. No clicking of heels. Just the clock.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in deep trying to pull some kind of composure together but he could feel hysteria tiptoeing on the edge of his mind. Deep within a white hot rage was bubbling at the implication that the Captain knew anything about his life… knew that he was a killer and he had done something terrible to someone he must have loved. And sadness. Bone saturating sadness that Lubbock very well have had more answers in the folder than he had in his head.

He reassured himself, _it's a misunderstanding. You're not the person they think you are. _Giving himself a silent command to breathe, he filled his lungs with air. Try as he may to clear his head and steady his resolve his body was still trembling. He was acutely aware of the clock, each second passing with a louder tick tick tick. His heart matched its pace.

The screech of the chair on the linoleum floor grabbed his attention, pulling him back to the present. His eyes widened as the Captain mounted the chair and pulled wires from the camera in the corner of the room. The reassuring red light winked out and though he couldn't hear it, he knew it was without sight. He was truly alone in the room with the officer.

"What are you doing?" Barely choking out his whisper, he clung tight to the arms of the chair.

Leaving the chair to the corner, he gave the other man a brief look up and down. Without missing a beat, his lips soon curled up into a smile that was everything but kind. His stomach soured at the expression. "I'm gonna use this interrogation room for interrogation again." Stepping forward, he returned to his perch over the table, his frame casting a brief shadow over the other. "I'm gonna get a confession from you about how you killed your mother—"

Knuckles were white from the stress of clinging to the chair. "I didn't kill anybody!" Some unknown portion in the back of his mind tingled at the interjection.

"—and they're gonna throw you down a hole forever."

He had to close his eyes to keep them within his head. There was an invisible vice wrapped around his head turning tighter and tighter and his skull was fracturing, he was absolutely sure of it. Images bled across his vision snapping into focus and then disappearing just as quickly. It was surround sound with scents included, his senses screaming at him from too much input.

_Gunshots. Something burning. Ticking. The woods at night. Headlights driving away. The ground. Air too thick to breath. Gunshots. Paralysis. Ticking. Suffocating. Burning. Cold. Blind. Ticking. The stars. Blood. Yellow lines. Gunshots. _

Eyes flew open and in one swift motion the Captain threw the table to the side, skidding it over the floor. Eyes blown wide with fear, Gabriel raised his hands to try and protect himself though he knew it would do nothing against the other. The Captain wanted to hurt him and he was going to, he couldn't stop him, and even as that acceptance was running through his mind he felt something run through him. Gabriel's chair shot backwards as Captain Lubbock flew through the air smashing into the mirrored glass, shattering it. The clock boomed behind him as he raised his hands, staring at the now foreign digits. They gave no answers.

Blinking, he was sane enough to know that that was impossible and yet it was. The shrieking of the alarms jarred his thoughts. They were going to put him in a hole again… in the ground. They were going to fill his lungs with earth. Glancing over himself, he stood up tentatively afraid to step forward. _I'm not a killer._ Repeating the phrase to himself, he stepped forward. Captain Lubbock was still breathing even as Gabriel's own lungs worked too fast refusing to really take in any air.

_I'm hyperventilating_, he rationalized. Turning back to the table, he grabbed the file from on top of it and shoved it in the band of his sweatpants, pulling his shirt over it. No one was getting it from him until he had answers. If Gabriel couldn't find them then he'd make them.

Vaguely aware of voices rising as they drew closer, Gabriel narrowed his dark eyes. He wasn't going to let anyone put him anywhere he didn't want to be. Not again.

The door was locked from the outside. Using the chair as a step stool he climbed over the broken mirror, glass crunching under foot. The voices grew louder as he stalked down the hall, long legs devouring the distance. The buzz in his head was replaced with the ticking of the clock; though he knew rationally he could no longer here it, it still followed him. Gabriel wasn't sure how he knew the way toward the car park but he had one destination only and that was out. Out just so happened to be in the direction of the voices now accompanied by heavy footfall straight toward him.

At first they fired at Gabriel but the bullets never made it close to hitting him. They hung in the air and dropped to the floor seconds later. They tried again to have less luck, this time the projectiles halted then shot back in their own direction.

White. All he saw was white. Everything in his path was thrown to the side by a heavy unseen hand, sweeping them brashly away. With each step the lights blew one after the other surrounding him in darkness. That's when they started running away, save one. Stocky, wide eyed and completely overwhelmed, was entirely frozen in place except for his trigger finger. It twitched and shot at Gabriel a final time. Without so much as turning his head, he threw out a hand, and the other man shot backwards crumpling as he flew four feet above into the plaster of the wall with a crack. His head bounced and he fell to the floor. His gun landed in Gabriel's hand.

His strides turned to a jog. Each step crackled, the fingers of his free hand twitching, continually popping with electricity. His eyes were no longer seeing but the air around his was heavy and charged, enough to make hair stand on end.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. His heart pumped in his chest as he burst through the doors of the station and out into the car park. Row after row of lights went dark. Alarms shrieked after him in the night.

Madeline stalked through the car park fishing for her key ring. Her lips were thin, pressed in a straight line as the lock to her car beeped and she opened the door. Sliding into the seat she withdrew the file from under her arm and without bothering to start the car, sat looking over the file.

There was no mistaking it was him. The photo was perhaps a few years younger and with glasses but it was most certainly him, no mistake. Still, she had her doubts. Pressing thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, she tried to blot away the tension. Madeline had her doubts and she knew it was unprofessional to let her emotions cloud her judgment but the man in the room was confused but certainly not dangerous. Either he was a master manipulator or there was some kind of error. Her mind rattled through the other possibilities, reflecting as she took in the information on the pages in front of her, copied from the file Captain Lubbock had (almost gleefully so) presented her with upon her request.

When he had pulled her into the hallway she hadn't believed that the man in the other room could possibly be Gabriel. It was apparent from the moment she had arrived that the captain was going to disregard any opinions—no matter how professional, regardless of her experience, more than likely because she was both relatively young and a woman—presented. He had his mindset that the man in the interrogation room was guilty and he was grasping for absolutely anything he could put on him. But the file… it was no mistaking that he was Gabriel, at least in appearance, if not mentally for the time being.

Mulling over her own thoughts, she glanced up when one by one the overhead lights turned off. For a moment she wondered if there was some kind of brown out or power failure occurring until alarms pierced the air and pounding on the passenger side door caused her to jump.

Gabriel stood banging at her car window insistently and in his hand he had a gun.

Madeline's eyes went wide with confusion, then with fear.

"What are you doing?"

Gabriel threw a look over his shoulder. No one had left the building yet and he figured he had a few more minutes before anyone was brave enough to follow. He wasn't completely sure what had happened in the building or how he had been able to get out so easily. His stomach knotted and if he'd had anything to eat it would be rioting its way up the back of his throat.

"You said you'd help me," he said locking eyes with her, pleadingly. "You promised."

The doctor hesitated and he slumped against the car. Though his hands were pressed to her car, visible where she could see them, they would occasionally quiver. The way her eyes broke away for a split second to regard the open folder with his picture didn't go unnoticed. She had said she would help… Madeline looked back up at the man standing just outside her car.

The gun stayed resting against the window, away from her. Though he had it, it was completely foreign in his hand, not finding any comfort in it. Gabriel's dark eyes were flitting back and forth between the entrance, across the car park and back. His nostrils were flared and he was breathing hard and shallow.

Madeline turned the key in the ignition and hit the automatic lock unlatching the door.

She had never seen such a grateful look as Gabriel gave, sliding into the backseat of the car, slouching down.

"Drive. As far and as fast as possible."

Gabriel cast one more glance back toward the police station as they pulled out of the parking lot. The doors were still closed but he knew they wouldn't remain that way long. They were going to come for him and they would probably find him. Rubbing at his eyes, he drew in a deep breath and swallowed back the sharp taste of bile.

The doctor's watch continued to run a few seconds too fast; his head throbbed in protest. Gabriel turned on his side and threw up the tea she'd brought him earlier.


	5. 05 Frankenstein

_**Characters: **Gabriel, Madeline Gibson, Captain Lubbock_

_**Setting: **somewhere outside of Baltimore, MD_

_**AN: **Sorry it's been quite awhile! Between work and my macbook charger melting it's been a bit of a hassle. But I have some spare time and have been really working at how I'm going to connect all the dots._

_**Dedication:**_ _Thanks so much to __**Neuronerd**__ for reminding me that I can work this in whatever creative way I want and single handedly changed the course of where I think this story would have headed. We're early in but my whole thought process changed. Thank you! _

* * *

><p>He was on his knees and he was laughing. The pavement in front of him was dotted with blood and he knew from the sight of it that it was his own. He might have been underwater from all he could hear. They were in a city but the sounds were so far away, twisted and mangled and muted. Everything was muted. Even the colors. He knew he was laughing more from the motion through his body and contraction of his lungs than any noise. He knew it was his blood internally more than from the dingy color that might pass for red.<p>

A man stood over him staring down at his hands, mouth slack and open. Fear was radiating from him in waves. One side of his bottom lip was less functional than the other making his expression almost painful, not comical as it might. His lips moved slowly and he could just read the silent refusal repeating itself. No. No. No.

Gabriel said something but his own words were sounds he'd never heard before. Ones he certainly couldn't make any sense of. The man closed his eyes and looked like he wanted to shove his fists to his sockets but was too wary of the appendages. Gabriel needed to stop him but the man burned brighter. And brighter. And brighter. A filament in a bulb burning hotter and hotter, ready to pop. He was going to explode in the center of the city.

Gabriel had to stop him but the night sky lit up like the day. And then there was blackness…

Gabriel's body practically threw itself upward off the backseat of the car. Only out for a few moments. It had just been a few moments but his heart was hammering in his ears. Licking his lips he failed to sufficiently wet them, as his mouth was also dry so he breathed through his mouth. The sharp taste of bile was strong in his throat but the windows were open airing out the scent of his sickness. Still, he wrinkled his nose and rubbed at his eyes, starting again at the cool feeling.

_Right. The gun._

In his hand. Then pressing to his eyes socket. Even though it was the butt, somehow he felt less than safe.

Gabriel looked it over with morbid curiosity and les than mild disgust. He doubted he'd ever had any fascinations with shows of brute force. It was barbaric the way that waving around a club to smash in an animal's skull was barbaric. How had he come to have it in the first place? _Oh yeah. Stocky._ He'd been shooting at him. Gabriel should have died in a hail of bullets but he walked out of the police station with one of the weapons they had fired upon him.

It was one (of which there were many, really) question that haunted him: how?

It was the same thing Dr. Gibson was thinking as she clung to the steering wheel in her car driving far from the station but further from home.

The back of his skull throbbed, tendrils stretching out and reaching forward slowly succumbing regions further forward in his head. It made it almost as hard to think as the cotton clouding his mind. And it was in his throat now transforming his tongue to sand paper. So dry. It scratched with every attempt to swallow out of reflex rather than out of necessity… there was no moisture.

"I don't know how I got out of there," Gabriel said to break the silence. It would have been deafening if not for the pounding of his own heart in his ears and the ache that shot across the entire circuitry of his brain with each pulse.

"That makes two of us." It was a police station and while it was late at night, still decently staffed. There were alarms. How one man could escape an interrogation room, best not only the captain but the entire force, acquire a gun and manage to do so without looking any worse for the wear—save for the pale complexion and twitching eye, and nausea more than likely left over from previous trauma not current—was beyond any logical reasoning.

Dr. Gibson's dark eyes glanced into the rearview mirror not for the first time and took in the man sprawled across the backseat of her car pressing palms to his sockets and gnawing at his bottom lip, his heavy brows knit. Gabriel staggered his breathing. Somehow he had walked out a main entrance.

For a moment their eyes locked in the mirror and she put her attention back to navigating the dark road.

"I'm not a killer…" Gabriel ran a hand through his hair knowing it wasn't as simple as that.

"Well you're a kidnapper and a carjacker and you beat up a city precinct somehow." The words sounded doubtful even as she said them. Madeline threw a look over her shoulder weighing her skepticism. It was justified. How anyone, especially someone suffering a possible mild concussion and obvious trauma, could do that… well those parts of the equation didn't quite add up.

"He was going to throw me in a hole. Hurt me. He… nobody believed me except you." His mouth was so dry. And his throat scratched as he spoke. Gabriel's stomach knotted and gave a small heave again but he forced his breath out slowly trying not to let the odor in the back cause anymore unnecessary ejections.

Dr. Gibson gripped the wheel tighter and shook her head. Though her voice was quiet, he still heard her. "I don't know you, Gabriel."

The reaction was instant. He jerked up where he was sitting and waved his hands, but the gun never pointed at her. "No! No, no…" His free hand went to his temple rubbing. A knee jerk reaction and the pounding in his skull intensified. Some thought or memory wanted to rip its way out but it couldn't scale the wall in his head. There was the buzzing again. Mental reverberation. "That isn't my name. I close my eyes but it doesn't feel like me. It's not me."

Gabriel didn't feel like anyone. He felt like a copy of a copy, washed out. Blurry. At one point he had had definition but too much usage had bled it away. There weren't even straws. But Gabriel did have one thing. The file. He kept it folded and tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants. Fingers ran over the fabric comforted by the bulge of hastily folded pages.

"It sounds an awful lot like you." A watchmaker was just too perfect of a fit.

Gabriel had a hard time defending himself. The words sounded conspicuous even as he said them, "Your watch. I heard the ticking. But it can't be. I know I'm not a killer." He glanced out the window wondering who he was. What he had done to land himself in this mess. In the woods. At the police station. In this car on this road. How he had wound up where he was.

"You know that," he said to the darkness not meeting her gaze in the mirror. That was all he knew; even if he was some terrible person and he couldn't remember it, he wasn't that person. There was no way he was that person. Gabriel watched the trees blur by, their details even more clear than anything about himself.

Though it was dark, she could see the fear on his face. Not fear of being caught or guilt for past deeds. In the back seat was a man who really didn't know who he was. Dr. Gibson sat in silence for a moment, looked forward and concentrated on the yellow lines in the middle of the road. She glanced over her shoulder one last time not relying on the reflection but on an honest split-second look at the man and made up her mind.

"You're right."

She pulled off the shoulder of the road and stopped the car. Even as he asked what she was doing, he circled around the car and came face to face with him. "If you're not a killer then by definition you won't kill me. Take my car wherever you need to."

It was obvious he was refuse by the bewildered look on his face. "No. I need you… and I need your help."

Whatever support he needed… Dr. Gibson couldn't be it. For so many more reasons than she could have possibly explained. Forgetting even any of the remarkable happenings at the police station. And while she didn't know him, he was right in replying that he didn't know himself. Gabriel needed direction and as he stood in front of her, his eyes pleading, she knew he was latching onto her for just that. There was no one else. He was vulnerable and conflicted and there were no answers… none that would be easy.

"Turn yourself in and let the police figure out what happened to your mother. Let me figure out what happened to you." It was the only path he could go down that she could follow. After a moment his features softened from panic to resignation. Gabriel wanted her help and he was willing to accept her price.

"Okay. Okay, okay, okay," he mumbled to himself. Inside, he felt a terrible gnawing starting at his stomach and working its way up to his heart and his lungs. Breathing came faster and he willed his heart to stop pounding but it hammered away. Gabriel tossed the gun, his hand immediately feeling better for their freedom.

_She's going to help. And you didn't do it. You couldn't have done it._ He told himself.

But somewhere else came, softly, _you could have._ Gabriel closed his eyes and tried to drown out the reply. No, he wouldn't listen.

Sirens shrieked and flashing lights sliced the darkness again and again. They drew closer and his heart hammered faster. Gabriel locked eyes with her for a moment and in space between them looked for anything. A sign. Dr. Gibson nodded.

Three cars pulled up behind them. His stomach dropped when Captain Lubbock stepped out first, shielded by the door of the car. Leaning over the barrier he drew his gun and pointed it directly at Gabriel's heart. The man could feel the aim like a physical touch to his chest right over his heart. Whatever forced had saved him before, Gabriel had a feeling it wouldn't save him a second time.

Captain Lubbock shouted but the words were indecipherable. Gabriel just couldn't process language over the static in his own head. He turned to Dr. Gibson one more time and her lips moved. He listened when she told him to, "do what he says," even if he felt the words in his mind more than he heard them. Gabriel lifted his hands and turned to face them.

"He's turning himself in. Put the guns down, please."

Captain Lubbock's gun didn't falter. He stayed where he was and more of them stood braced behind their doors. A few more points across his chest where he could sense their aim. But of the faces, Captain Lubbock's was the worst. It wasn't the rage there but the certainty of his features. A man pointed his gun at him and he had such certainty, he was crucifying him with his gaze. Captain Lubbock did not want to figure out what happened to Gabriel's mother.

A tremor ran up his spine. Fingers twitched. The air around him crackled and Gabriel's vision got hazy. He stood palms out, no gun but not weaponless. The smell of ozone was heavy and he caught the faint sparks of electricity out of the corner of his eye. Everything was in slow motion, his thought process halted. Lubbock wasn't going to do anything to help his mother. He didn't care what happened to her. Sparks flew.

He heard the first shot just as he felt the second, third and forth tear through him. There was no invisible force cushioning the air around him as the shots rang, a group reflex as one cop and then another aimed. The force jolted his body backwards, thrown into Dr. Gibson they both tumbled off the side of the road.

Her scream filled the air as they rolled end over end down the steep decline. Five shots straight to the chest. She had seen them hit Gabriel. Her limbs were half caught tumbling with a dead man. The world spun out of control first a ceiling of stars than a ceiling of dirt.

Gabriel was dead. And if he wasn't dead then he was certainly dying. They'd shot enough rounds to pierce lungs, heart, and at least a few other critical organs. She had never smelled gunpowder before but when the world stopped spinning the most immediate sensation was the combined aroma of burning; bitter metal of blood, and damp must of the earth.

The metal was in her mouth, too. The flesh on the inside of her cheek was torn. Collecting herself, she stood up and eyes widened because Gabriel did, too.

Gabriel paid the doctor no attention. Something was happening. He was dizzy, but it was so much more than the fall. He felt different. His body was… reacting… it was the only word his mind could reach and it still didn't feel fitting. Grabbing at the edge of his sweatshirt, he pulled the blood stained fabric skywards revealing his torso.

There wasn't pain the way it should be. It hurt, but so distantly. Through a fog. On the other side of some barrier. _Maybe you can't feel pain properly_, he wondered. It was as possible as anything else, he supposed. But there was a slurping sensation, an almost burn.

Dr. Gibson stood silently and watched as the ragged holes of flesh moved and a glint of light caught on something in the moonlight. Then another. Stepping closer she realized it was the bullets. They were pushing out of his skin and the torn skin began to knit itself back together. It wasn't perfect; there were still bloody wounds but the blossoming of blood slowed to a trickle from each wound.

Gabriel groped at his torso and despite his grubby fingers nudged one into the wound. It stung and he hissed out as he did so but it was shallow.

"What the hell was that?"

Prodding at the wound he couldn't get his finger any deeper. It just stopped. Gabriel's brown eyes met hers. "I don't know."

At the top of the ravine lights bounced as men on foot ran with flashlights. Dogs barked and the momentary silence following the shots was broken.

Dr. Gibson was no biologist, geneticist or physicist. Had no background to define or understand spontaneous cellular regeneration- if indeed that's what it was- but she knew people feared the unknown. Gabriel feared everything because he had no recollection. But people would fear him more and she knew what his life would become. Labs. Needles. Tubes. An empty room and monitors. A life of tests with little probability of answers.

He didn't deserve that. No one deserved that.

"Go." She said. Gabriel failed to move so she shoved him. He had asked for her help and this was the best she could do for him. "Run. Run!" She pushed him again and this time his body gave enough to take a step back.

_Run._ The word echoed in his head as he met her eyes wordlessly giving his thanks. Turning, he fled still hearing her voice. _Run_.

* * *

><p>There was something wrong with Gabriel.<p>

_I'm a freak. Like Frankenstein. Some kind of monster made in a lab somewhere._ He thought. Every breath caused a pain in his left side. There was pressure. Which wasn't surprising as he was fairly sure just a short time ago a bullet had punctured his lung.

_No, not made. Grown. There was something wrong with me and they couldn't fix it so they… they what? Trashed me. Made a mistake._

Tree blurred as he ran hoping his legs or heart or lungs wouldn't give out. Gabriel needed to move faster. To get away. But he kept seeing the road, the flashes of light, and tasting the dirt. The dirt from the hole.

_I didn't stay buried. Did they know that?_

Something in the pit of his stomach twisted. Gabriel could taste bile in his mouth once more.

_Are they tracking me? _

There were too many police for a single man having escaped a police station. Too many for a nobody. For a man they claimed had killed his mother. To have killed just one woman. _You didn't do it,_ he reminded himself though it was irrelevant.

Up ahead he saw the lights. Heard the music. He should have turned away. Ran. A crowded place… it was terribly obvious. Sure, there might be lots of people but many people meant lots of questions. It wasn't as if Gabriel was in the most presentable of conditions. But his feet lead him right to the Carnival. It was too poetic.

_And the freakish monster finds his way home._


	6. 06 Nathan

_**Characters:** Gabriel, Samuel, Lydia_

_**AN:** For clarification, it is to be assumed that Lydia's power _does_ enable her to project her empathy. Meaning, she can touch and display thoughts, scenes, feelings, etc, but only if there is a real physical connection with the person. Also, as I'm sure you've all gathered so far, Sylar's powers are on a muscle-memory only capacity, mostly under extreme emotional duress. Please R&R! It's truly inspiring._

_**Beta: **I feel awkward looking for someone to beta my story but if anyone enjoys my story and would like to help edit, brainstorm, and just overall be inspiring and a thought-board, I would adore you forever!_

* * *

><p>Samuel welcomed him to the circus. The noise of the police and the dogs were being drowned out by the cheerful sounds of the carnival. Rides that were running, sound effects for games, all operating without patrons. It was late but all the lights were lit, sounds weaving together and surrounding them but the grounds were relatively empty. Gabriel's lungs didn't feel so strained any more though his breaths still came fast. The pain in his side and his chest didn't leave- he was surprised they weren't worse.<p>

This was a sanctuary, Samuel told him. And Gabriel was welcome with open arms. Maybe he should have asked more questions... he certainly debated that later in one of the trailers when he was left with his own sleeping space and given a change of clothing. So strange to happen upon a place as if they had been waiting for him specifically... like he hadn't happened upon them by accident.

_And that they should take you in, no questions given the shape you're in..._ But it didn't seem in Gabriel's nature to be ungrateful. He dismissed any conclusions he might come to in the woods without the odd man's help.

Shaking his head, Gabriel cleared out his thoughts and stripped the soiled shirt from his body. In the full-length mirror (it was obviously an antique) he ran his eyes over his form. There were holes where the bullets had been but he jabbed at them with grimy fingertips once more testing... no. No, he could feel where they ended. There was no metal inside his body. Given the faint pain and the pounding of his heart he took a deep breath and ran a hand over his torso once more.

_You're not dreaming. _ Gabriel wrenched his finger inside the torn flesh and winced at the stab of pain. _And you're not hallucinating._ He did so once more and momentarily saw spots dance across his vision. Pain that real couldn't be a hallucination.

As he stood prodding himself it hit him just how bone weary he was. It was an all-encompassing exhaustion. His limbs felt heavy and his muscles stiff. Given what little means he was provided- which was truly more than he could have expected- he cleaned himself up and pulled on a clean shirt. Buttoning it, he silently mused that the sleeves were too short and the chest a little too wide. Apparently he was tall and wiry, not half so well developed or broad as whomever owned the shirt prior. But the dark hair on his chest was masculine enough, as were his strong facial features.

_Still, not bad. Some might even call you handsome._

He chuckled at the thought, snorting quietly to himself. _As if it mattered in the least. Men wanted for murder are _clearly _prime candidates for dating pools. Then again..._ Gabriel let his thoughts drift and wrenched his finger in his wound once more for good measure.

With the last button done he fell onto the cot and without bothering to turn off the light Gabriel's thoughts drifted. In just a matter of moments he was asleep. Too much had happened in the last few days though he was unwillingly ignorant to so much of it.

Too much for any one body, or any one mind, to handle.

His breathing steadied but his slumber, though immediate, wasn't peaceful.

* * *

><p>The cab was still moving but he opened the door, anyway. He had a cell phone pressed to his ear but like everything else, he heard only static. Screeching, teeth grating static.<p>

Someone important was on the line. They needed him; it was an emergency. Closing the door, he reached through the window and handed a wad of cash to the driver. He remembered the tone had worried him. So did the location. Middle of nowhere... and he didn't see him.

Taking a few steps forward and another back, he threw his gaze around. The alley was empty but the address was right. From the corner of his eye he caught motion and from there everything slowed down. Frame by frame he watched.

A cell phone crashed to the ground, shattering. Gaze was turned up. A pigeon crossed his line of flight. The man stood on a ledge god only knew how many stories up. He swayed just a little. Hair fell in his face obscuring the view further. His stomach clenched as he deduced exactly how this was going to end. A slight sway and almost tiny step of the man closer to the edge. His insides shifted and his palms began to sweat; sympathetic dizziness caused him to sway on his feet, too.

And from so many stories up he heard, breaking through the eerie silence wrapped in buzzing, the man's voice. "It's my turn to be somebody!"

Maybe he was joking... but he held his arms out to his sides. Oh god, it wasn't a joke. He held them out from his sides like a bird or a prayer and took one step. Just one step into nothingness and he plummeted headfirst toward the ground.

Then it was a close up... they were face to face and he could see the fear registering in the man's features. Eyes wide open and mouth pressed in a crooked line. He was holding onto him so firmly his knuckles were white. They spun in the air and the other man's eyes widened in recognition. "You're flying," he murmured but as the half flew half tumbled his grip grew tenuous. He was struggling to hold him, the boy with the crooked smile, though he knew he had to. They were flying together but his fingers tired. Around and around, it was dizzying. As he lost contact, the other's weight became heavier. He couldn't fly by himself.

He looked straight into the man's eyes as they widened and heard his own voice scream as the other fell, their fingers parted.

"Peter!"

* * *

><p>Gabriel woke with a start and tangled in the sheets he'd fallen to the floor with a thumb, his limbs bound. They fought their way free and he lay back on the ground and closed his eyes sighing. His heart was hammering away. Lifting a hand he rubbed at his eye but it was fabric rather than skin working away the sleep.<p>

_That's odd... they were too short when I went to sleep._

Pushing up the fabric he ran a hand over his face and for a moment was puzzled. The pajama bottoms felt too snug but extended past his feet now that he was free of the blankets.

Furrowing his brows, Gabriel sighed to himself.

_I can't be awake yet._

Sure enough when he opened his eyes and looked, the fabric fell a little high on his forearm as it had the night before. The pajama bottoms weren't too long and the weren't too snug on his wiry frame.

_You're losing your mind._

Sighing, Gabriel sat up and rubbed at his eyes. A few breaths in and out, slowly, helped settle his nerves as best as they were going to settle. What he needed was to clear out what was left of the sleep. To do so Gabriel stood up, got himself dressed, and headed out into the morning air. He wouldn't let his dreams stay with him even after he had awaken.

Samuel had been there waiting for him when he had emerged from his sleep. The smile that he gave Gabriel made him uncomfortable for a moment but then he remembered what a blessing it was to have found a single person willing to help him out of nowhere. So what if he was a little quirky? Surely they were worse things. Stranger things.

_Like having no idea who you are. And the cops after you. Chunks of your memory missing. Perhaps doing unexplainable things._ Gabriel listed off a number of things to himself silently.

When Samuel called him Sylar he felt a moment of hesitation and repulsion. Yet there was a moment of rejoicing; the file and the police might be wrong. He might not be Gabriel. Maybe he had him confused with someone else. Then it surged in him again, the certainty that he couldn't be that other person, even if 'Gabriel' felt so far away from the other identity he'd been given. "That's not my name!" He had objected but really, what was his name? Gabriel? The older man had seemed just as confused about his response as anything else. And why did the name Nathan seem like a better fit and yet so foreign on his tongue?

"You don't even know your name." There was a profound disappointment coming off of Samuel in waves. He didn't try to hide it. Gabriel's stomach dropped. He wasn't sure why.

The whole thing made Gabriel dizzy. The pressure in his head was pounding. His head was a war zone, hot and cold fronts meeting, battling in his brain. The result was cacophonous blood pounding through his ears and an upset of his equilibrium. He had to take a seat for a moment. Samuel might have mistaken him for someone else but it didn't seem possible.

"Why are you helping me?" Because if this was a case of mistaken identity (again) he needed to be going. There were expectations; he could feel them though he wasn't sure what they were. Samuel's eyes were hungry and the look didn't set well in Gabriel's stomach. Neither did the answer to the question but... part of him felt that surge of hope once more.

"Because you have great power."

And because everyone else was like him. They were different. They could do things. Samuel's promises were empty, at least Gabriel assumed with equal part skepticism fighting off his hope. _Who am I? Or what am I, after all? And what can I do?_

Calling to one of the family members he watched a brief demonstration of now-you-see-it and now-you-don't. Gabriel's mouth fell open and though he was stuck with momentarily disbelief he had to remind himself that the night before bullets had ejected themselves from his skin and somehow the flesh had began to knit itself back together. Raising a hand he rubbed over his still tender chest. The wounds were still healing but at a rate much faster than the average person. It was impressive and more than slightly confusing.

Waving a hand with chipped black nail, Samuel called to a beautiful slim woman whose skin was decorated with various tattoos. She wore a tank top of sorts and a flowing skirt. Both were worn just as natural as her long hair and soft smile. Her eyes were kind. The way she carried herself was like Samuel but in a less intimidating- and very different- manner. They knew who they were and they stood apart. Gabriel would rather stand with Lydia.

Samuel reached for her and took hold of her arm giving her a smile. "Why don't you show Gabriel around? Introduce him to our family." His hold tightened momentarily. She returned his smile, eyes clouding over for only a moment as she received his silent message; _give him a reason to stay_. She smiled again and nodded her head only in the slightest of fashions.

"You haven't missed breakfast," she promised and left Samuel's touch in favor of guiding Gabriel.

* * *

><p>Gabriel's eyes lifted to address the laughing. Straightening up from the hunched position he'd taken over his plate he caught Lydia's eye. She waved a small hand as if to forgive herself for the musical sound.<p>

"You'd think you'd never eaten."

"I... I can't remember the last time I ate something so delicious." Slowing down, he cut at his giant waffle and sponged up some more of the syrup on his plate. This time he chewed less ravenously, a slight flush warming his cheeks.

"Don't mind your manners on account of me. Mrs. Comey deserves all the praise she can get, even if it's a plate licked clean."

For a moment he was mortified. Eyebrows shot up but the soft lines at the corners of her eyes and the smile on her lips was reassuring. She wasn't attacking his eagerness or mocking the frequent rumbling of his stomach. When Lydia caught his gaze and smiled right at him all teeth and warmth... His shoulders relaxed once more as his chocolate eyes fell back to his plate.

"They're delicious," he mumbled and Gabriel took another bite finishing more slowly. Still he went for seconds and even managed thirds. The hollowness in his stomach filled it stopped its' insistent growling.

Lydia seemed to sense his need for silence, or at least for quiet companionship. So much had happened, he was easily overwhelmed or flustered. Anxiety was pouring off Gabriel in waves as he interacted with others or thought about it. Lydia let him set the expectations and noticed an immediate difference. She sat next to him gazing out at the other bodies moving and smiled kindly to her extended family.

But mostly she sat. Some people had the presence of expectation. It was tangible like weights pressing down from either side. Lydia's silence was peaceful. She sat and braided a few strands of her long hair without thought. Gabriel smiled, casting glances at her from the corner of his eye, hidden in part by his long hair and thick eyelashes. Comfortable silence was just one way to build companionship and confidence and given Gabriel's strong reactions to everything the game plan was to start easy. He was just a babe.

"I remember waffles," he'd eventually brought up. "But I _don't_ remember them. A lot of things are like that. I remember them as words or as things but the two... I can't bridge the two together. Make the..." he hunted for the word and found it moments later. "Association. Connection. Whatever."

"I can't imagine how terrifying that must be."

"You have no idea. Everything is so hazy. When I try... I.. I can try to pull things together but there's this... I'm not sure. This buzzing. This wall in my head like static. It's deafening. But if I don't focus, it's so much quieter. Maybe it's my subconscious. Maybe I shouldn't make the connection at all." Gabriel laughed quietly, ducking his head. It sounded insane.

"I can feel the turmoil. It runs so deep." Lydia took hold of his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. "The person you're meant to be is in there. He'll find his way out."

Gabriel's lips curved up and he reveled in the warmth spreading in his gut.

"I have a feeling," he confided, "I'm supposed to find someone. And he's going to help me figure it all out."

Nodding, Lydia smiled and took his empty plate. "Come on. There's much more to see."

* * *

><p><em>So begins Gabriel's stay with the carnival!<em>


	7. 07 Sleeping Demons

_**Characters:** Gabriel, Samuel, Edgar, Lydia_

_**AN:** Sorry it's been so long! I've had computer issues and a packed summer. Time off has given me time to rethink some straggly bits in the plot, though, and I think it will work the better for it. Big thanks to Neuronerd for bouncing ideas with me. I promise that we will be getting to Peter Petrelli in the next chapter or two. I've been having a lot of fun building up Gabriel/Sylar but as ideas formed it wound up being more necessary to introduce PP a little later than planned. And thanks for your reviews! _

* * *

><p><strong>Present Day<strong>

Gabriel remained side by side with Lydia. His stomach was full of the most delicious thing he could remember eating and despite himself and his situation, he felt content. This was a world of new possibilities and she was happy- if not persistent- in opening his eyes to it.

She took him through the carnival grounds showing him the way. It didn't matter that it was a new city and a new set up- Lydia always knew where everyone would be and more or less what they may be doing. He wondered to himself what it must be like to know just where you fit like pieces to a puzzle; he didn't even know where to uncover his own pieces let alone erect them.

"Every site must be different," he commented about how easily she found where she was going. Even then her feet seemed to know the way before she did. Gabriel followed, sometimes clumsily when he started to turn one way but she turned another instantly (intuitively) changing her mind and redirecting. It was so much bigger than he'd imagined- not that he'd had a lot of time to put thought into it.

_It's been just hours,_ he reminded himself. _Hours since they took you away from the police. _

The chase. The shooting. Lubbock. Madeline. The forest. The bullets. The darkness. Gabriel's heart beat quickened in his chest as he wondered what happened to Madeline when they found her running in the wrong direction doing her best to buy him just a few more minutes so he wouldn't be dissected and desiccated under the blinding white lights of their laboratories.

_I hope she's okay._

But his thoughts were torn from their inner dialogue as Lydia glanced over her shoulder, the corners of her eyes creasing as she smiled. She held his eye until he looked down with cheeks turning red. Silently he wished for them to stop; he could even feel the warmth spread to the tips of his ears.

"We're family," she said easily, her voice not quite laughing but he had heard the tone before. Musical notes of amusement but never so much that the unsure man felt as thought she were laughing at him. "When you know someone well enough you can be intuitive... you know what your family will do. The grounds aren't really any different." Lydia breached the small distance between them creating a bridge as she took his large hand in her calloused smaller one. "You'll make a place for yourself here. You're with family now. You'll find your way."

Eyes snapped up from the ground and curiously looked on at where her fingers slid through his. Watched as the delicate ones contracted and gave his a squeeze. Warmth spread from the touch and blossomed in his stomach. Isn't that what he wanted? To find his own way?

Lydia held his hand for a few moments longer then released it. Gabriel tripped over his own feet as they continued on. He caught himself by throwing his other foot out and stumbled only a little. They were quite large, as he'd noted before, but apparently needed for something if his balance was really so easily disturbed. Doing a quick mental assessment of himself and deciding minimal damage had been done, Lydia laughed. Her hand covered her mouth as she tried to swallow down the sound turned those musical notes to dissonance in Gabriel's ear. They scratched like nails in his ears as she laughed at him though she tried not to.

A single tear rolled down her pink cheek.

Gabriel straightened himself and clenched and unclenched his hands as his insides were grating in time to her laughter.

_No damage,_ he thought. _Except for your ego. Like she would really notice you. No one ever notices you._

Gabriel's mood went black and without so much as a thought he hurled the nearest rock twenty feet from him without touching it. Then another. And another. Her laughter ended but he was deaf to the transition of noiseless struggle for air. Gabriel's eyes were unseeing focused somewhere inward rather than out.

Lydia's eyes were wide in restrained horror and concern as she touched his arm once again. This time her fingers closed around him tightly almost tugging. Gabriel's vision returned slowly as he came into focus on her face. Taking a deep breath, his cheeks heated once again. The feeling in his stomach was sour and the taste in the back of his throat was worse. Somewhere inside him was still a grumbling whisper so passionately dispossessed the fury was electrical. The air around him went charged, crackled and popped as the pressure in his head swelled.

She withdrew her hand quickly, and managed to fill her lungs. Lydia sucked on her finger, a pink welt showing where she'd been shocked. Gabriel's eyes softened and the air stilled. He swallowed the feeling down; it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

The two continued walking Lydia's eyes watching more warily for Sylar but Gabriel failed to notice.

* * *

><p>The afternoon wore on and she told him about Joseph and the community he wanted to build for their kind. How he wanted to bring them together and when he passed, Samuel had taken up the torch to carry on their traditions. And his legacy would be a larger one. Working. Sharing. Always helping one another but now taking in more to grow their family. Samuel wanted to let all specials know that they were just that- special. There was a place for them outside of society where they could be safe and celebrate their differences in numbers such that the outside world couldn't touch them.<p>

Lydia spoke; Gabriel listened. The picture she painted was beautiful and he never noticed the way she occasionally tiptoed. Walking side by side, their footfalls fell in time and eventually stopped.

"Don't you ever get tired of wandering?" Gabriel asked. He clamped his mouth shut as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

_No, you don't sound ungrateful at all. Who are you to be questioning how they live? Not like you're exactly settled down yourself, _he snarked at himself. Not that he would know if he was. Lydia watched cautiously as the clouds passed across his face but the weather cleared there just as quickly.

"I didn't mean..."

Lydia held up her hand and shook her head, her hair cascading around her. Something about her made him completely tongue-tied. She reassured him and the darkness slipped from his face.

"Many of us love traveling always somewhere new and exciting. More of us have grown tired of it. When the seeds take root, we'll settle. We'll have found home."

The afternoon wore on without further incident, lest not from Sylar. Aside from the display between Gabriel and Edgar things had gone smoothly. Samuel and the family had watched quietly without interfering to see how the dispute over territory- better known as Lydia- would conclude. She had watched wordlessly and could see the hope extinguish in Samuel's eyes when it was Gabriel, not Sylar, who ended the fight. Gabriel who, without any self-realization or real control, flung knives away from himself and into a nearby post. And it was Gabriel who flung Edgar away into a bucket of cement failing to permanently quiet the discord but momentarily end the feud. Samuel's face had hardened. Sylar would have killed him instantly no thought involved.

The darkness Lydia had witnessed earlier was snuffed out quickly and didn't lift its head again. Gabriel seemed no more knowledgeable of his powers or his lack of control over them than he had before. She had thought maybe... just maybe... when he had been wounded by her unintentional insult that Sylar would return but he'd been put to rest. Samuel glared at her, his eyes saying more than words could, and stomped away leaving others to clean up.

Samuel wanted Sylar back to his former infamous glory as a weapon and protector to the family but Lydia was certain that he didn't want so much at the expense of anyone at the carnival. He'd never wish harm to someone in the family. But the look on his face as he stalked away caused her stomach to clench... Sylar would have killed Edgar and Samuel was... he was disappointed. Chewing her bottom lip, Lydia glanced between the two men. To Edgar who was being pulled from the cement and nursing metaphorical rather than physical wounds. To Sy-Gabriel who was looking at his own hands in confusion and awe.

Someone so lost couldn't possibly be their savior- could he?

Thoughts were tumultuous as they played across the backs of closed eyelids. When Gabriel was gone from her sight, she had pressed her palms to her eyes and took a few slow breaths. Too many possibilities. So much to see. Samuel wanted Sylar back and he had to be confident that they would be safe, that if he woke up the serial killer wouldn't pluck special after special from their family tree where they were so ripe and plenty. Didn't he?

Before she could think about it, her hands hoisted up her long skirt just a bit and it trailed behind her like a trail as bare feet carried her across the grounds. They knew their place no matter where they were. The ground might change- some softer or harder under her feet- but the path was always so easy to find. She sequestered way in one of the tents not bothering to knock or announce herself. Samuel might not have tolerated others breaking his concentration but he also wouldn't want to wait to hear her news.

"It's not working," Lydia said.

Shoulders tensed but he failed to speak, his back facing the younger woman. It was obvious, she knew, from the fight. Beneath their feet the earth moved, just enough to fill his hand and then a jar, turning to clay and darker ink.

"He likes what he sees and what he hears," she continued, not oblivious to the fact that some of it had to do with herself. "But he's not remembering. He's so confused. Things are murky and... Separate. I don't know how else to describe it to you but it's not one cohesive want or desire in him. Things are struggling beneath the surface."

Samuel sighed and turned around producing the long, whip thin needle. She moved to the seat, sliding her shirt from her shoulders baring her back to him. The needle was filled and then entered her skin, emptying the ink. It swirled around one shoulder than the next, down her spine and separated to two then to three clouds. They continued shifting even after they had formed, so uncertain and undefined. A face without many features, just enough to be male. Flight through the clouds destination undefined. What Lydia could only sense as a union but she wasn't entire sure of what.

"What does it mean?" Samuel wondered. It was never so unsettled.

"I think we're going to lose him. Sylar will be gone to the world unless we can wake him up. He's not gone but he's buried."

Samuel's hand rested firmly on her shoulder, clutching her in a way that insisted that she continue. Pulling her shirt back up and around her, Lydia turned and recounted the afternoon how he'd boiled so quickly and unexpectedly at an offhand and unintended wound to his pride and Samuel came to understand that stories and stroking his ego would not wake up the killer. It was so easy- so obvious. It was insult and injury and blood.

There was no time for building to it, making him feel at home. They needed a plan of action before Sylar was gone, beyond reach. "So we unhinge him and put him back together in the image we want," Samuel concluded as he felt the first tendrils of ideas plant themselves into place and taking root.

Lydia stood up and left her friend and leader in thought not feeling better for the tone of his voice.

* * *

><p><strong>Ten Days From Now<strong>

_"Bless me father for I have sinned. It's been... I can't remember how long it's been since my last confession. Far too long, I'm sure." With a small chuckle, he ran his hand over his face. It wasn't funny. Nothing about it was funny. Fingertips traced the intricate patterns in the screen dancing back and forth from shadow to light. Always teetering from one to the other. Shadows were cast across his face, which was fine. He felt exposed in the light. He turned his head fixing his gaze to the side and watched the other shadow person so much stiller than himself. Opposite the partition was the priest, a figure so important in his life- though he wasn't sure how. Growing up? Holiday sermons? Pretenses of perfect values for campaigns? Multiple memories conflicted. _

_"We all stray from our path at times, and with help we find our way back. Tell me your sins." _

_It was warm inside the box and the air felt thick, not the right fit for his lungs. He fought against something inside of him that felt trapped. So dark. So pressing. For a moment his lungs couldn't get a breath in but eyes were closed and in a few moments he would still his heart. There's nothing to fear. Fingertips lingered over the delicate woodcarving and screen trying to hook their way through to the outside. They dug into the wood until blood drained from his knuckles leaving them white. The feeling brought him back down. It was harder and harder to clear the fog away each time. _

_Opening his eyes, he stared once more at the wood covering the screen. Why the patterns should look so cheerful he couldn't understand. Dark thins went on inside these cramped walls. The setting for scandals should be far bleaker. Even if God could forgive the type of thing man- or monsters- might be capable of, it shouldn't look so cheery. It wasn't respectful. Dropping his hands, he cleared his throat. _

_"Go on my son," came across the partition. _

_"I want to but I'm not sure I could. Find my way, I mean. These past few weeks I've been searching but father, I don't think I'd know it even if I found it. I've one so far and I just... I doubt there's a way back from where I've gone."_

_"There's a way for all of us." _

_Something dark inside of him grumbled. It was for just a moment but his fingers twitched at the thought of reaching through the partition and choking the blind optimism out of the other. In fact, he wouldn't need to reach. The clock inside of him began to tick. He just had to think about it. The pressure would build and after it was done there'd come a few seconds of clarity... Gabriel swallowed and pressed his palms to his eyes and sat up straighter. The clock quieted to nothingness and the monster went back into his corner restlessly. He was growing bold. _

_"I've done things to people. Terrible things." And he knew how it sounded to others. They couldn't imagine what kind of terrible things. They couldn't know what terrible truly was. Closing his eyes once more, he pressed long fingers into his sockets a little harder. A burst of color lit behind his eyelids but try as he may he couldn't block out the images. The colors always blossomed then deepened to crimson. A very specific shade. Any time he closed his eyes- even for a moment- there they were. The people. On the back of his lids in vivid colors. Worse were the other senses that followed (not always, but often enough)- the scents or the coppery taste of accidental spatters on lips. Muscles tensed in memory mimicking their previous poses. He unclenched his fist, freeing his fingers. "I used them... Father, I sucked them dry. When I finished with them there was nothing left. I would get my fingers... get right inside and I could figure out the way they worked. It wasn't hard for me to get close and hook them. They never knew. But sometimes, at the end when there was nothing they could do about it, they would realize. I would let them just because I wanted them to see. Sometimes I wanted them to know what I was going to do. I don't think any of them really understood..." _

_Speaking it out loud made his mouth salivate. The other person inside of him could taste the fear and the hopelessness. His stomach churned. "I could get right inside of them and peel back everything. Layer after layer, I would get in deeper and deeper. It all made so much sense. The further I got, the further I needed to go. Father, once I started I couldn't stop not until I was at the core. Such a delicate process, surgical, even. It was all so messy. To get in there, father, you have to be willing to get messy. It's never clean, no matter how careful you are. It's always, always messy." Blood, it was never clean. Not at least until he had finished. He'd experimented with telekinesis and using it to keep the blood from going all the places it shouldn't but part of him needed it as much as it sickened him. And cleaning up and disposing, it became part of the ritual. Part of the need. _

_"I can't remember it though, father. Not really. I know that I did it... I close my eyes and I can't get rid of the images. I can't sleep without waking up to them. Seeing the people... But those things I've done... it doesn't feel like me. I watch it happen from some place else... behind a wall with a window and the image is blurry but it's starting to get clearer. I don't want it to get clearer because I can't stop seeing it or feeling it. It's so far away but it's getting closer and if it gets here..." he couldn't think about what would happen when it completely clicked. _

_Inside of his head he felt the pressure build. The buzzing in his ears crashed inside his skull, drowning out the sounds of his breathing or blood rushing through his veins. He tried, he really did, but whenever he tried to force the scatter pieces of puzzle into place the pressure came. It squeezed and forced its way behind his eyes and he felt as if it were forcing them out. He pressed his palms to keep them into place. No, he couldn't settle into the shoes of someone capable of dissecting people like a scientist might a rat. He couldn't. So he pressed back against the pressure, pushing it down. Swallowing, he dragged his tongue over the roof of his mouth. It felt like lead and tasted like bile. _

_"People say that I've done these things and I know... but they remember it in a way that I can't. What I can remember... what I feel... it makes me absolutely sick," he hissed. Running his hands through his hair, he clasped them behind his neck and shifted his weight on his knees. Though he straightened his back, he then leaned forward pressing his forehead to the wood. "Who would do those kinds of things to people? Who would live with themselves? And when I try to remember... he couldn't stop himself. And later... later he- I- didn't even try. It was so addicting taking everything they had. They couldn't appreciate it like I did and it was so intoxicating... Addicting. I couldn't stop. I envied everything they had until I didn't have to anymore." _

_And worse, so much worse, was how easy the rationalization had become. His fingers so far inside, probing and prodding, pupils blown wide as he unlocked absolutely everything- it was justified. They would squander it. They didn't want it. They couldn't understand it. _

_They weren't special enough. Not special like he was. _

_The breath rushed from his lungs and Gabriel continued recounting his sins. There were too many horrors to recount but they came faster and easier, lifting only slightly from his bowed shoulders. He told the father about each person- not their ability or how he took it from them- but he remembered them so the priest would, too. _

_As he was leaving, the priest suggested he take information on addiction counseling- it was a common enough problem and God could help. He laughed a sad sound and clutched the father's hand with both of his to thank him. _

_Gabriel left without it._


	8. 08 Corporial

_**AN**: So I had every intention of bringing Peter into this chapter but completely wound up with Parkman instead. I promise that Petrelli will make it into the next one. And a million apologies for not updating. Life caught up with me, a new job, moving, and then severe writers block. I've a few ideas and I'm sorry for those of you who enjoyed the story had to wait! Hopefully this is worth it and I'll force myself to sit down soon and write some more for you!_

* * *

><p><strong>A Few Days Ago...<strong>

"Hello?"

He reached down, fingers wrapping around the warm metal.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He scoured the knife, cleaning it before plunging it back into the water and removing it once more. Damn spot just wouldn't budge. Maybe it was tarnished. They made polish for that... didn't they?

"A guy might start to think you were ignoring him. And that, my friend, would really hurt my feelings."

He didn't bother replying. Despite himself, his hand quaked just enough that his fingers lost the grip of the knife he'd been cleaning. It splashed back into the dishpan, the front of his shirt dotted with a few drops of water. He ignored it and reached in fishing the utensil out and started all over again. A slow breath slipped past his lips as he sliced the edge of his finger on the knife.

_It's just carelessness_, he comforted himself. _Not him._

"Come on, Truffle Shuffle. Don't be a spoilsport. You wouldn't want to find me in a mood."

Matt clamped down on his bottom lip and repeated his breathing. Slowly fill the lungs and then empty them at an equally sluggish pace. In and out. Polish the knife one more time and set aside with the other utensils. Pick up another and start again. In and out. Clean and set aside.

Of course he had uncovered a school bully's childhood nickname for him. He, too, was inside Matt's head. The difference was that he was _bullshit_.

This was all bullshit, really. All part of his imagination. It was the guilt that was weighing him down from all the completely screwed up things he had done lately. It was with him all day and it plagued him at night. And if he let the devil on his shoulder tempt him, well, he'd screw up all over again. Besides, all of that was over. That part of his life was over.

_You promised Janice,_ Matt reminded himself. _She doesn't have to know about one little accident. Okay, so there have been a few tiny setbacks. But you know better now and it's a learning curve, isn't it? Like riding a bike. You skin your knees a few times while you're learning. You won't do it again._

Matt didn't want anything to do with all of that good-guy, bad-guy, save-the-world-but-ruin-yourself crap no matter how noble it was. He didn't need that self-sacrificial shit. He would just as soon welcome another eclipse if it kept him on the straight and narrow. After all, he was on probation as far as Janice was concerned. And he was intending on making good on his word by doing away with the less-than-pleasant people he'd met in his life and the less-than-ethical decisions they'd shoved down his throats. Those kinds of people rubbed off on you and he wanted little Matty blemish free. Unlike the god forsake silverware. He should have listened when Janice wanted to replace it... But no. No more altruistic crap shoved down his throat. Nope. He wasn't going to be a pawn in those little games anymore. And just because Angela had called insisting he fix the colossal cluster-fuck she created didn't mean he had anything to do with it. That was a one off. Matt had washed his hands of it and he would not slip up again.

"But won't you?" The shadow rumbled from the corner, his dark eyes obsidian. For a moment, he was the tenebrous figure just at the corner of Matt's vision and man he was amused. "You know you will," he purred, dangerously feline.

Matt lost his grip on the plate in his hands. It, too, landed in the basin but this time the water splashed up and, as Matt's luck would have it, hit him in the eye. The soap burned. "Jesus fucking Christ!" he spat, rubbing his wet palm into the afflicted eye only making the burn worse.

"Very nice," he snarked from the corner at the brilliant display of adequately addressing a problem.

Matt grabbed blindly for the dishrag and dried his hands. He then pat at his eyes trying to coax the soap doused one and after a moment it did. The vision was blurry at first and he blinked a few times to clear the soap from it. The tearing automatically made his nose run and he sniffed a few times for good measure. Matt stalked from the kitchen to the bathroom looking for anything to stop his eye from burning- but mostly just to get away from Sylar.

Staying within his peripheral vision was proving more of a mind-fuck for Matt Parkman than standing directly in his line of sight. Christ, he was easy to rattle. And he was practically seething, he could just visualize smoke pouring out of his ears made all the easier by the fact that Matt's face went hotter than a flame when he got upset. It was only slightly disconcerting that Sylar, too, could feel the heat. Still, he chuckled and his smirk grew miles, as did his self-satisfaction. Not only could he see the struggle as Matt's shoulders tensed and his breathing escalated, but he could hear the internal battle. Feel the dark tides swelling inside Matt.

After all, he was as much inside of Matt (as foreign as he was) as Matt's own conflict. It was hard to tell which of the two, at the moment, was more raucous. But it was hard to differentiate many things and so Sylar didn't.

_It's all made up. He's not really here. You're giving yourself a complex and it's making you a little crazy. Janice doesn't have to know because you won't slip up again. You're doing so well. It's one day at a time, old buddy, and besides, don't you think it's just a little screwed up that your conscience is coming to you in the form of a serial killer? You won't slip up._

Matt reminded himself again and again as he put down the eye drops and blinked his eyes a few times. The world was fuzzy and the dark figure in the corner of his vision could easily be a shadow as a figment of his imagination. There. Task done. Matt blinked and moved back toward the kitchen to clean up. Housework finished for the day. Reaching into the sink he pulled the plug from the drain and left the water disappear down into the pipes. If only he could do the same with his mind: bleed out the last few months and then pop back in the stopper and voila. Clean slate or empty basin or something.

"If you don't slip up, I might. I'm not very good at secrets, or, who are we kidding?, most social conventions. They're just so drawn out." His grin hardened. "Well, Janice might disagree with me. What do you think, Matty? Do bedroom antics count as social conventions? I'm not sure I mind those being drawn out..."

The plug from the drain left his hand before Matt could form a thought; he moved with such speed everything in sight lost focus. "You will **never** touch my fucking wife! We killed you, you sick bastard! I erased you myself and you're **never** coming back!" The sink's stopper cracked the glass of the china cabinet door, colliding where Sylar's face should have been. Matt's shout echoed in the empty kitchen; there was no black clad demon standing opposite him. No devil whispering in his ear. Just the empty space to the left of the cabinet and the plug rolling on the floor. From the other room he could hear Matt Jr. start to cry, probably startled by all of daddy's noise.

A strangled noise filled the room as Matt turned back and leaned over the sink. It took him a moment to recognize it as his own laughter. Elbows hit either side of the sink and he propped himself up hoping to hold some of himself together. His stomach sank, as did his face into his hands. He rubbed at his eyes once more and tried to take a few breaths but the laughter wouldn't stop. It was funny because it was so fucked up and none of it was real. Not a fucking word of it.

"Sylar's dead." Matt reminded himself. That was true. Or, well, as dead as he could be given what they had done to him. He and Noah and Angela. "You took care of it," he repeated. He told himself those words each day. He had erased him, pulled out his insides and stuffed the hollowed shell with someone arguably more valuable. "You took care of it."

Maybe it wasn't quite dead enough.

The call Angela had made a few weeks prior unsettled him. Asking him to do that all over again... that must be it. There was just a lot going on and it was weighing him down. Bad decisions. Guilty conscience. Struggling with addiction. Fumbling towards sobriety. There were a lot of detours and roadblocks on this path but he was cruising (albeit at a snail's pace) to normal. Better- he corrected- a better life for Matty Jr. and Janice. The promises he made were finally ones he intended to keep.

The laughter died and lungs filled with air. The manic feeling started to pass.

_You only see him out of the corner of your eyes now._ Gripping the sink, he stood up slowly as he tried to fully settle his insides. Turning the tap to cold, he splashed a little water on his face to cool down the momentary fever. It soothed the burning of his temper. _It's because somewhere inside of you, you know this is all fake. He's made up._ He reached for the towel once more and dried his hands again. _But he's gone now. You can't take back what you- what they did. The world's better off. Matty Jr. will grow up in a world with one less monster._ Matt hung the towel over the rack and turned to go check on Matty Jr. who was still crying in the other room. It was probably time for a changing or dinner. Or both, knowing his son. The kid ate like a champ. No doubt where he got that from.

Matt turned and mid stride his elbow smacked back onto the sink as he jumped. Pain shot through his chest at the same time, fire flaring up his arm.

"Gotchya." Sylar stood inches from Matt's face, wagging his fingers at him in a coy hello. But it didn't swell Sylar's insides with accomplishment.

The way he made Matt piss himself like the guy's own incontinent offspring had been amusing at first. He was just too easy, though, and like any kind of repetition it was boring. Sylar didn't deal well with unstimulating. His hands were itching.

Dropping his arms to fold across his chest once more, he glared down his sharp nose at the other not inching away even a hair's breadth. He'd never really understood the imagined physical discomfort of standing too close to one's proximity but it worked a treat on Matt. "I'm going to make this really simple, even for a dullard of your mental acumen. Give me back my body." Sylar paused for a moment and smiled coolly. "Give me back my body and we'll part amicably. We'll forget this whole fiasco ever happened."

"Fat friggin' chance!" Matt bit back. Nervous as he was he tried to keep eye contact. The sink kept him from slinking back any further and it was only because Matt failed to blink he saw the hand strike out and catch him around the throat.

"I tried playing nice. Really, I have, Matt. But you're just not getting the big picture so maybe I need to paint it. Really, really, fucking big and bright." His fingers dug in more tightly and Matt's face gradually grew more and more red. His lungs sputtered but couldn't draw in air. Sylar drew closer and they were nose-to-nose. The hairs on the back of Matt's neck stood on end and his hands clawed at the fist around his throat.

"Give. Me. Back. My. Body." Sylar hissed, each word wrapping his fingers more tightly around Matt's airway. "Give me back my body or I swear to god I will dissect your little bastard and sew his remains back inside your wife. I wonder how long she stays conscious? Do you imagine it will be long enough to see where you're putting her precious baby back?"

The hands grasping at Sylar's around his throat stopped. Matt drew back his fist and punched thin air. His knees buckled as the air filled back into his empty lungs and the pressure removed itself from his chest. Matt fell to the floor clutching his throat and his stomach. Matty Jr. crying in the other room was competing with the volume of his heart racing in his ears.

He couldn't live like this.

No one could.

In the end, it only took a few more hours of patience after weeks of subtle persistence in steering the easily impressionable cop into the exact corner Sylar wanted him in. Matt lost it in front of Janice- shouted and pleaded with her to leave with the baby.

"You can't tell me where. It won't be safe." He raved as he rushed around her, grabbing random toys and articles of her clothing. They were shoved into a bag and throw at her feet. "It won't be safe," he repeated. "I can't keep it from him. He'll find you! It's best... at least until I figure this out. I'm not sure how long it will take but... I'll fix this, Jan. I'll keep you and little Matty safe. I have to fix this." Stopping in the midst of the frantic packing, he met Janice's eyes and hoped she could read it all there. Just like he could read all of her.

Janice left clutching their child to her chest with the bag hanging from her elbow. The worry lines wrinkling her tired face was the last thing he saw. Nothing she said penetrated that layer of hysteria blanketing her once-husband so tightly.

Alone that night Matt drank. Christ, he deserved a stiff drink for all the shit he'd had to put up with lately. Or really, over the past few years. They had been some really screwed up years but a funny thing happened as he downed that first drink. Sylar flickered out of the corner of his eye and his normally daunting speech slowed. Matt had promised himself just the one drink but that was before the drink was the answer. So he threw back a second and third and seventh and sixteenth.

Why hadn't he thought of it before? Sylar was a mental projection... he could drink until the devil was obliterated! It made perfect sense! It was his turn to taunt the devil as he threw back drink after drink emptying the once full bottle until the boogeyman was curled up on the floor gradually disappearing until finally Matt was alone. It had been so long since he'd been alone. Just him. And the quiet. Silence. After a few minutes, Matt cried with joy. Sylar didn't come back. And so he took another drink, the last one, in celebration. And Sylar didn't come back.

Janice did. She brought Matt's partner with her after explaining as much of the situation as she could. Things were bad. Matt was in a dark place again and Mike had come reassuring her. Everyone fell off the wagon sometimes. That's what a support system was for, not because it was easy and certainly not because anyone could do it alone.

Matt locked eyes on the both of them and threw his arms up in victory with an affirmation that he had succeeded! He was done! But he didn't remain conscious longer than it took for him to get the words out. Poisoning Sylar had nearly poisoned Matt but fuck, it'd been worth it.

That was the last peaceful moment.

When Matt began to stir he was vaguely aware of a conversation happening around him. There was a buzzing and fuzziness to everything as it came to him from far off like a cell phone with terrible reception or a radio on the wrong frequency. For a moment he wondered what was going on before the relief flooded within him: he was rid of Sylar. Sure, he'd drank himself near liver failure but he had succeeded. And they said drinking was bad!

The conversation wrapped itself around Matt, but he still felt far away. Opening his eyes the vantage was wrong. He sat up (just barely) in a corner. It took a moment for his brain to click everything into place and make sense of the conversation. The liquor made everything so hazy. And slow, like wading through cement. Was he still drunk? Things shouldn't be so rippled. Coming to him out of sync.

Matt's stomach went into free-fall. He heard his own voice but Matt wasn't speaking the words. "Thank you... both of you. I'm just... I'm going to go clean up and get rid of," Matt's body motioned to himself and the obvious stench of booze. Matt's body was standing in front of Janice and Mike. Matt could still smell it. Matt's body looked from his wife to his partner with grim determination and then left the room.

Matt's awareness was scrambling in the corner of that room. He shot to his feet like he didn't weigh of anything... and Matt's mind caught up. He didn't. He didn't weigh of anything. There he stood in the corner with a shiver running its cold fingers up his spine. Matt's body turned but the movements weren't his own, he was facing it like some kind of Stephen King doppelganger.

Face to face with himself, darkness closed around his heart because looking back at himself was Sylar and the devil was smiling through Matt's own eyes. "Don't worry, Matty. I leave killing children to the real monsters." Grinning a bit wider, Sylar tilted his head letting the words soak in, allowing Matt to take a longer look. Sylar, fully in control of Matt's body, raised his hands just slightly as if to say 'check me out' before he left the room to shower. The watchmaker and his puppet.

Matt screamed for Janice or his partner but neither came.

Chipper whistling echoed from the bathroom.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Yesterday<strong>

It wasn't that he couldn't breathe- his lungs were more than capable of filling themselves with the cool night air. In fact, they very much longed to burning with desire. It wasn't that he couldn't breathe- there were no hands around his throat or weight pressing down on his chest. It wasn't that he physically couldn't breathe.

It was only that his body wouldn't. His heart couldn't allow his lungs to take in anything bigger than the slightest hiccup of air. So his lungs longed for the intoxicating feeling of life and he slowly suffocated in the blackness. His heart roared in his ears.

His lungs wouldn't fill but his body would empty. The burning eating at his core erupted upwards again and he slumped over spewing what little was left in his stomach. Bile stained the front of his shirt and when he sat back up once more a few elongated strands mixed with saliva hung down from his lips. Mucus dripped from his nose and his eyes burned. The world was a blur and he couldn't tell if he was suffocating or his eyes were wet.

When his vision started to go dim as the night he slumped backwards until his shoulders hit the ground and he faced up towards the stars. He closed his eyes but he could still see just as clearly the hell they'd played for him. He was hollow and they had stuffed him with these blood soaked nightmares of a life that just couldn't fit inside of him. They'd shoved inside of him the violent ends of countless bodies and a monster baptized in blood. The creature took communion with the devil for he was a god among lesser men and there was nothing he couldn't have except salvation and he felt a dark seed rooting deep inside himself as the seconds began the quiet ticking counting off every tendril it grew.

These things... they weren't him. They weren't him. They weren't.

And he wouldn't breathe.

Gabriel wouldn't let himself.

If only the monster had stayed buried.


	9. 09 Awaking Atlas

_**AN:**__Sorry for the really long wait. I know it's long overdue and we're finally getting to the heart of it! I'd really love any and all feedback. It definitely makes a difference. Long story short, I've fixed my computer issues by buying a like six gen old mac book keyboard and plugging that into my super old macbook pro (as they keyboard has shorted out on it and I couldn't get on the computer forever because my password including letters that weren't working LMAO fml). So now it's like a desktop! Bit of a headache and a little ingenuity. _

_Anyway, the chapters are going to start jumping back and forth a little bit more like the show did though we've done a complete deviation from the SL. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Today<strong>

The sun was creeping through the window but it landed on Gabriel completely unawares. Lately he found himself sleeping but never truly resting. This night and this sleep were the longest and the deepest. The weight had gone from his chest and the air had returned to his lungs. Frightful images had ended their marquee on the backs of his lids and Gabriel slept soundly. Soft huffs of air left his lungs.

Gabriel woke slowly. A noise came creeping, shifting his brain from the murkiness of sleep to awareness. The cogs began turning as his mind awoke before the rest of his body. The brief disconnect was dizzying as synapses fired the commands to bring the rest of him two. The noise came creeping but it was far away and getting closer. Not birds singing outside of the window. Not the sounds of the carnies commencing morning chores. Or the wind or the soft thumps of feet walking past.

All of these sounds were identified but none of them were creeping closer and growing louder. Gabriel's eyes opened but shied shut just as quickly from the brightness of the sun. Morning was too much for him just then. He lifted a hand to filter the light and tried opening them once more.

_What's wrong with the light?_

It was red like the sunrise but the position was all wrong. The sun was too high.

Gabriel's brain kept firing and the last piston fell into place. His eyes snapped open. It wasn't the light that was red but his hand. His hand covered in blood that had dried overnight and stained his skin.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

A distant part of his brain fired the incessant clicking of a long quiet clock. It was fuzzy. Far away. It waned to get closer but it remained at bay, almost sleepy.

_Blood? My hand? Am I hurt?_ He closed his eyes and did a quick assessment... but he felt fine. Perfect. Better than perfect, really. He felt rested and slightly more... settled. Like his skin fit better than it had before.

Tick tick tick tick.

_Last night..._ he prompted himself. He had to think. There was something very much missing. The muscles in his stomach twisted in on themselves. It became very important that he not open his eyes. Gabriel had to remember last night. The last of whatever sleep this might be- the tail end of a nightmare?- would disappear once he remembered. That's how sleep addled minds worked. They just had to be made to like anything else not functioning, as it should.

_Last night... Last night..._

Gabriel rolled away from the light and grabbed for the pillow reaching to position it better under his head. As it shifted, his fingers found a thick patch on the bed beside him. Immediately he tried to rub it away on the blankets but was met with more damp.

Ticktickticktick.

Lydia lay beside him, her mouth tugged down in a grimace. Her lips were parted just barely and her intrusion in his bed left him unsettled. The disappointment she seemed seconds away from voicing didn't come, but neither did any other sound or movement. He reached out and touched the tousled hair covering her forehead and brushed it aside. The fierce red line across her forehead found him on his feet in moments, standing on the cot he had shared with Lydia the night before.

**Tickticktickticktick.**

The sound echoed in his ears and the despair welled up in his eyes. His hands went immediately to his own head firmly planting themselves on top holding his own scalp in place.

_Holy fuck... What have I do? Lydia... Oh my god, I couldn't have... Could I? _

The night was an invisible knife in his hand like the one that pulled Lydia apart.

**Tickticktickticktickticktick.**

The roaring in his temples multiplied and he closed his eyes again trying to block out the light and the sound. Last night... they had showed him things. Things about himself that couldn't be true but it was like paresthesia... the limb was yours but the numbness and the tingling and the movement... it was yours and it wasn't. You didn't really control it. It was divorced from yourself.

_"Are you okay?"_

_She had found him outside smothering himself under the stars hoping to drown himself in the night. Lydia had gone wholly unnoticed by Gabriel as her bare feet padded through the straggly grass without a sound until she reached out a willow arm and her fingers brushed his hair. Gabriel's eyes had snapped open and she noted he looked equal parts feral and meager. Lydia knew what Samuel had done without asking. Still, she stroked his hair and asked him softly. When he didn't answer she asked again._

_"Sylar? What happened?" _

_Icy fingers danced up her spine; her voice sounded too sincere. Lydia knew better but she felt her heart break as Gabriel deflated in front of her, a strangled stutter burbling passed his lips. He was beyond seeing. "You shouldn't be out here," she had whispered and like a lullaby she lifted him and coaxed him back to her trailer and to her bed. He had stood still, a cold mute statue as she tried to remove the more restricting items of his clothing: shoes, jeans, button up. Gabriel's eyes were fixed out of focus to a spot just above and to the right of her left shoulder; he made no fight to stop her from removing his clothing. Nor did he help. He just stood with eyes open never blinking. Hardly breathing. _

_"Sylar," Lydia tried again. She brushed her long hair from her eyes and from the proximity some of it brushed against the bare skin of his arm. He didn't flinch nor did he embrace her but his lips parted. _

_"I hear a clock._

_Lydia maneuvered him towards the edge of the bed. It took a bit of work, his taller frame less cooperative._

_"Clocks," he mumbled. He was quiet for a moment and blinked for the first time in minutes. With sudden clarity his eyes snapped into focus and up they traveled to her face. Lydia inhaled sharply and started to pull back; she stopped herself after withdrawing just a few inches. "I'm not what they said." _

_Her heart softened as she thought to herself, however briefly, that he truly wasn't Sylar. He was broken. Not whole. There were pieces missing but where they were and who had them, even she couldn't divine. _

_But even broken men had their purposes and if he could not be filled to the brim with his past then he could be build from his roots. Lydia had experience with broken men._

_She offered no argument for or against. She wasn't meant to know what he was speaking about, least so far as he knew. Every stroke to his temple and soft coo from her lips was sincerely fond but callously orchestrated and though she wanted to tell him no, no he wasn't. Maybe he had been but not any more, not with what she had seen. He was not what they said, that had changed. But she had to make him be. That was her role. Lydia leaned closer, her hair falling across his skin as she leaned over him. Her hand took one of his and gave it a squeeze. _

_"You're freezing. Let's get you to bed." _

_Empty. Upset. Desperate. Detached. The soft sound of clocks continued setting the tempo. Lydia had shared the night with him and as each fabric barrier was removed and distress became passion, another piece snapped into place. She turned tides with strokes of her hand and pulled strings with movements of her body. Gabriel was just as easy to play as any other and as she straddled him, her hips rocking prestissimo to their mutual crescendo. His pupils blown, completely unseeing, he had clung to her thighs as if trying to push himself deeper. She was Charybdis and he had gotten too close. Still, she panted her own satisfaction trying to still her own heart as she grazed her fingers curling briefly in the hair at his chest. _

_"I can feel you," his voice was thick. _

_Lydia thought it sweet, such an obvious thing to say after a less obvious action. But she could feel him, too. The tides turning and the turbulence building under his skin. When his eyes opened they were black. Gabriel leaned up and kissed her, different from before. Eager and assertive and... cold. _

_She pulled back and the smirk on his face said more than any future her skin told. Lydia grabbed for her top but her arm froze mid motion fighting against... nothing. Turning her head back to look at him she opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing but she knew and there wasn't any air for her lungs anyway. An invisible pressure tightened on her throat. _

_Without intending she'd given part of herself to him. He had understood it and absorbed it and somewhere deep inside his brain it clicked. It clicked and it ticked and it tocked. The gears had begun to turn. _

_Lydia's eyes widened. Samuel had known. She had done exactly what she was supposed to. She would build Sylar from the roots up, not as a lover but as a victim. _

_He could hear clocks. _

_Then he could feel inside her head the cacophonous rush of understanding and the never sleeping hunger. _

Gabriel blinked and felt his stomach force itself up and out of his mouth. Oh god he didn't mean to but he couldn't avoid her as his stomach emptied itself. Stumbling off the bed, he was blind with the burning in his eyes and deaf of everything save for the thundering of his own heart. Throwing out his hand to catch himself on the bedpost he was filled with a rush of lush and a disentangled thought, a multicolor memory of the night before. Lydia smiling slowly and taking his face into her hands. She was naked and climbing into his lap.

Jumping back he slipped; the blood had soaked into the bed and much had pooled on the floor. His hand landed on her equally soiled shirt and another bright bulb burst behind his eyes, this one of the slow but synchronized motions of her fingers as she pulled the top from her frame and tossed it aside.

The lust was palpable and it warred against the fire in his stomach. Gabriel was covered in blood, bathing in it. He had to get out.

A shriek tore passed his lips as he slid once more and finally threw himself to his feet. Tearing out of the trailer and into the knowing sun, he pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. He didn't know if he was trying to get the images out of his head or hold himself together. Sobbing, he glanced back inside one last time.

Lydia.

She had realized too late what Samuel had meant for her to be. But he had, he'd felt it. He'd felt so many things. The tempo buzzed in the distance.

Gabriel screamed to silence it.

Before he could think he was soaring through the clouds with the circus a retreating dot below.

* * *

><p><strong>Some Time Ago...<strong>

He was kneeling not in front of an alter or at a pew but in front of a wall. Something was wet on his cheek, dripping down his face. Everything was blurry, his thoughts were running away from him. Nothing made sense. When he finally blinked his lashes stuck together for just a moment too long; he was crying. Droplets fell to his hands.

Sucking in a deep breath, the air deflated from his lungs and he grasped more firmly to the beads in his hands. They shook, but he held tight to the rosary. The beads were small and feminine, worn where tinier hands far more delicate than his own had taken equal turns clutching them to a chest, or softly caressed them finding comfort in their power. Tiny grooves mapped soft polished spots from frequent use. Someone more pious than he had prayed with them and, he suspected, had been heard. Maybe all of her prayers had not been answered in the way she meant, but he was sure they were heard by ears willing to listen.

He held them but felt no connection. Not with her. Not with God. No lesser weight on his shoulders. If only it was the sky- he envied Atlas.

There was blood under his fingernails where he had scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed but somehow missed. It was deep under by the quick of his nails. The tips were torn from where the metal wool had eaten into his skin until his own blood had washed away with the scalding water. He had heard her the whole while ringing in his ears, over his shoulder. How had he missed it? Such a filthy boy. His stomach rolled over; the beads fell from his hand.

They froze as they fell and shattered when they hit the ground.

There was no absolution for what he had done.

Everything. He had tried everything. He had sought help from those who knew what he might be capable of but not one had been worthy of his trust. Not the fleeting father figure in Chandra Suresh who had sparked the kindling that he really was special and could be capable of amazing things but so casually dismissed him. And when he had returned with blood on his hands knowing the full weight of just how special he was Chandra had rejected any responsibility.

Then in Elle, the angel with a halo of blond hair- she'd betrayed him as well. She had given him hope in second chances and momentarily renewed his waning faith in God. But like all miracles, she was smoke and mirrors, fueling the fire Gabriel had been trying to extinguish in his gut.

Where was God in all of this? No where to be found. Not in church. Not when he prayed out loud. Not when Sylar had born himself from the sacrifice of his first victim tearing into flesh, breaking bone, immersing his hands (first ripping and then probing and studying the gray matter). Not when he painted on the walls confessing his sins in their blood and sometimes his own.

Forgive me father for I have sinned. Forgive me father. father father mother. Forgive me. Forgive me. Sinned sinned sinned sinner.

All had been lost but one. There had still been some hope left in the end deep inside. Sylar had not settled so completely as to silence the mourning of Gabriel. There was one constant so pious that God would have to listen if only she could accept everything that he could never be, not without selling his soul. Maybe they could barter for it back. Virginia Gray had opened the door and smiled upon the gift he brought her and for a moment nothing had changed. There were no abilities or murderers or monsters. There was this small life he had always known with this woman who had raised him as best she could. Who talked about opportunities for her son and big dreams she had for him that may or may not consider his own, and made him sandwiches he didn't like or didn't want disregarding any requests that he made because mother always knew best.

There were a few brief seconds any trace of Gabriel might live inside forever. A handful of seconds when Virginia had understood that her son was special, though she did not understand the cost at which it came. But she had laughed and twirled, a small girl in a snow globe, the very thing she loved. Virginia had cried in amazement when the globes themselves began orbiting her, embodiments of places she had never been. Places she could now never go. She had collided with one of the larger globes and his mother had awoken from the dream. He was not special. He was a monster.

It had been an accident. Gabriel hadn't mean for it to happen but the woman in front of him no longer looked like his mother. He saw her through different eyes. Her features were twisted, a rabid glint to her eyes. Virginia had clutched the scissors with such authority as she labeled him a monster and a demon and disowned him. Virginia had not been able to give Gabriel the gift of acceptance. Nor would she be able to chat with God and bargain for his soul. He took hers without intention, the scissors piercing her heart. She had died in front of him, in his arms and he knew she had gone where he would never follow. He wept for the loss of his mother, but he cried harder because he felt no real loss at all.

Using his forearm he wiped the moisture from his eyes. They lost their softness as he stood. There was no savior, he wouldn't be kneeling again. Not for anyone. He wouldn't be bound by their expectations or disappointments or doctrines. He would be the judge- and if fit, the jury and executioner. Something inside him rumbled.

If there was no way to stop the hunger, he would quench it.

Before he left, he scrawled a final message behind the door. Chandra would find it and he would know what it meant. Turning his back on the mural of his sins, he locked the door behind him.

GABRIEL GRAY IS DEAD.

He wasn't strong enough for this new world.

YOU'RE NEXT.

But Sylar was.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Now<strong>

Peter's eyes opened and found he was sat up straight in his bed. Glancing back and forth, he searched for the source of what had pulled him from his sleep. In the darkness there were few shadows, what little furniture he still had in his apartment. The sound of his breathing and his heart and the shifting in his bed.

Knock knock knockknockknock.

The frantic rapping on his door came again. Throwing the blankets off himself he jumped out of bed and glanced at a clock. Three AM. Not a social visit, then. As he rubbed some sleep from his eye, he undid the lock and chain and opened the door just a hair.

Nathan stood outside his apartment in a state. Save for his bachelor party, he'd never seen his brother looking nearly as rough. His clothes were soiled, his face streaked with blood and dirt, his hair hanging in his eyes. Opening the door wider, Peter waved his brother in noting it wasn't just the hall lighting that made Nathan appear gray and drawn. His pallor wasn't followed by the usual stench of stale whiskey and overly priced cigars.

"Something's wrong, Pete. Something's really god damn wrong."

Peter closed the door and turned back to his brother.


End file.
